


Man the guns, the howlers are coming

by wheres_the_conspiracy



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awesome Howling Commandos, BAMF Peggy Carter, Boxer Bucky Barnes, Captain America: The First Avenger, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Catholic Steve Rogers, Character Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fury (2014) - Freeform, Fury (2014) References, Gen, Historical References, Human Experimentation, Hydra (Marvel), Internal Conflict, Krausberg, Like a lot more. Oh well., M/M, Medical Torture, Military, Non-Consensual Touching, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Battle of Azzano (Marvel), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romanai Bucky Barnes, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Slow Burn, Sniper Bucky Barnes, So surprising it surprised me, Surprise Smut, Swearing, Telegrams, V-Mail, War, World War II, World War Threesome, ish, maybe some smut, more swearing than i planned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-31
Packaged: 2021-04-24 18:22:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 451,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheres_the_conspiracy/pseuds/wheres_the_conspiracy
Summary: ---Bucky Barnes & Steve Rodgers: hydra experiment to commando. Dancing monkey to Captain. Best-friends and a little more to the end of their first war.( Bucky clenches his fingers tighter, and pulls him until he follows, stumbling against a tree farther away from the hustle. He lets go to practically hug the bark of the tree, looks up at the canopy and around him again. Steve, thinking him delirious, reaches out to check his temperature. Bucky’s eyes shoot to him as he does, bright and possessed.“Is this real, Steve?” He asks, sounding like he’s almost begging. “Is this real? It feels real, like, like the tree and ---and you,” he clenches a hand around the zip of Steve’s jacket, digging the metal into his palm. “But not you at the same time. But you feel…Is this...? Tell me it’s real.” )
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Male Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 374
Kudos: 202





	1. PART 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can recite a thousand Ave Maria, gratia plena’s kneeling amongst mud and dirt and it would mean nothing, because it isn’t God and pearly white gates he thinks of as bullets rain down like the plagues of Egypt, coming for the firstborn, second-born, third and fourth-born sons. Painted doorways of lambs blood hadn’t saved all the children of Egypt; had killed as many Israelites as it had heretics, so perhaps God isn’t as merciful as He pretends to be.

_**A synopsis**: On the first month of war, my true love sent to me,_

_One depraved doctor, two troubled boys, three Italian Fronts, four dancing monkeys...five commandos…_ _six Hydra bases, seven soldiers swimming, eight shades of red, nine goggled goons, ten dancing dames, eleven eagles circling, twelve gunners gunning and A Partridge in a Pear Tree._

* * *

BUCKY

They pull him from the cages a week or so in, he thinks, a few hours past dawn.

He remembers thinking he’d be next when the aches moved from his bones to his chest; when he began sweating in his sleep and plegmn began to clog up his throat. God forbid he’s seen Steve hack up enough mucus before to know pneumonia when he felt it. They dragged the sick - and sometimes the healthy - away in pairs when they couldn’t work, or were particularly belligerent. He's barely been fit to work for days, and knew he was done for when the hose spray of the shower sent him spiraling down the rabbit hole, and felt more than heard Dugan cursing out his mother as he caught him from cracking his head open on the tile.

Everything since then has been a bleary patchwork of memory through touch, smell and sound. He drifts off wet and cold, is wrestled back into stained skivvies by rough hands, hissed words and German commands. This is the soundtrack to his life now; clanging cages, laughing Krauts and the buzz of electrical bulbs as a mirage of accents bicker around him; waiting for the German fuckers to call his number. And it will be his number, Bucky knows, the fascist assholes can probably smell the Gypsy in his blood.

“Christ boys, don’t let them see him.”

“Fat chance of that, half a dozen of them saw him go down in the….and the rest saw….frog-march back. ‘e’s fucked; couldn’t tell his ass from a his elbow right now. Look at ‘im!”

“Better him than one of us, Corporal.” comes a voice, thick with a Texan accent; from somewhere to his left in the next cage over. Lieutenant Blackwood from the 106th, Bucky thinks, and wonders when he’d ended up in a cage nearby. He thought he was in a cell block across the workroom. He fights his way to awareness; feels a blouse under his head, bars against his side and someone’s knee pressing into his thigh.

“Sarge? You with me?” Jones’ baritone pierces the fog, louder and closer than he’s expecting, somewhere above his head. He can hear Dugan too, quiet but fierce, a few cells away. Bucky has a vague memory of the man trying to bully his way into the same cell as him, Jones’ hands under his armpits, before one of the goggled guards electrocuted the guy and shoved him in another. 

There’s something wet on his forehead, lukewarm and sickly. It disappears - he can feel Jones shuffling beside him with his boots as the Krauts approach - the squelch of a damp sock squeezed out. Bucky at least had the decency to tear the corners off his bed sheets to make cold compasses for Steve on occasion, though he supposes you make do with what you have. He shivers, and groans.

“Barnes! You gotta get up.” Jones snaps, and whatever vision Bucky had whites out as someone shakes him, and he has to swallow back bile as it rushes up his throat, wheezing almost as loud as Steve used to. “Goddammit to hell, Barnes!”

He can hear the clanging of the guards opening the pens for the days work over the muttered arguments going on around him, but most of all, all he can hear is the sound of his own pathetic gasping. Rolling and rolling he presses his face against the cold concrete below, and fumbles until he’s clinging to the chain of his dog tags; burrowing his serial number into the skin of his palm.

Perhaps if he presses hard enough he can alter his heart line, then his life line; reforge the broken line of fate stretched across his palm into one whole. Or perhaps if he pretends just for a moment that the greasy metal tag is a _balavas_ charm, as he’s done firefight after firefight with his ears still ringing and ash in his mouth - it might make some difference. He’s never had one himself, but his ma had one - a battered coin hanging from her neck from frayed twine instead of the gold chain she’d had when he was young. It had never given her the good luck in life his ma’s ma had always promised her, so why it’d help a _poshrat_ like him whose never so much as seen the inside of a caravan, he doesn’t know.

“Ich sagte nach oben!”

It’s funny, Bucky thinks, that with seven years of Sunday School and four years of playing piano as his sisters sung chorus, it’s his mothers whispered teachings he remembers as the spectre of Death looms ever closer. He can recite a thousand Ave Maria, gratia plena’s kneeling amongst mud and dirt and it would mean nothing, because it isn’t God and pearly white gates he thinks of as bullets rain down like the plagues of Egypt, coming for the firstborn, second-born, third and fourth-born sons. Painted doorways of lambs blood hadn’t saved all the children of Egypt; had killed as many Israelites as it had heretics, so perhaps God isn’t as merciful as He pretends to be.

Instead he thinks of_ Jainism_, and_ bibaxt_ and _muló_, where the church is the Universe and the priest the open fields and sky - a belief that has always seemed so far away in a city of car exhausts and skyscrapers - with the spectre of bad luck and sickness shadowing the unclean. He remembers his ma always washing her hands, remembers the way she would wash the glasses first and the saucepans last, the way she wouldn’t touch nor speak ill of the sick - of Steve - for fear of marime spreading to her bloodline. He’d thought it foolish as a child, the way she’d make him bathe and scrub himself raw whenever Steve caught a fever, would lecture him endlessly about the tainted and the impure whilst sipping her sixth gin in under an hour; the only one of her tribe. She’d slapped him once, when he’d yelled at her, because surely of the two of them he wasn’t the unclean one; he wasn’t the one who’d been excommunicated and abandoned._ What would she think of you now_, Bucky wonders, _would she turn away from you in body and mind the way she’d done with the Rodgers’ now that you are the one wheezing and choking - abandoned by luck, talismans and God too? _

If the sacrifice of a hundred lambs hadn’t saved the innocents of Egypt, why would green fatigues and shiny pressed steel bearing the names of sinners and killers save him or anyone else now?  
He should remember the same of his ma’s side, to forget childhood dreams of amulets, destiny and the Evil Eye ever-watching. The only thing real is the curses; and the honest to God truth was, they were all cursed one way or another.

_32557038\. _

_32557038\. _

_32557038_ runs through his head and his palm, synchronized and strong - enough to drown himself out, harsh gasps turning to dry hacking.

“Barnes, shut it!”

“Christ Sarge-”

Aside from Jones, hovering at his head, they sound more resigned than anything - tired and half-hearted admonishments. There’s no longer any righteous fury as there was when Lohmer belted him across the face, no grim satisfaction as Lohmer bled out from under two hundred pounds of collapsed steel three days later; no aghast outrage when Bucky swung a metal bar at a guards groin just for the hell of it. That’s what had started this thing, followed sharply by the beating, all because he couldn’t keep his head and his temper in check. It seems he left all of his suckered patience with Steve when he shipped out after-all. They know it too he supposes; this had been his fault and now he was paying the price, _bibaxt_ coming back full circle to bite him in the ass, and they’d done their part. They’d hidden his fever through the night, stopped him from dropping ammo boxes on himself in the day and given him extra meat in his stew from their own, but there isn’t much point hiding it now. 

“Holt ihn auf! Auf den Füßen!”

He wonders if his cellmates, friends and unhappy acquaintances alike, have slept since the shower the day before - if he’d kept them all awake through the night. Leathered hands haul him up to his feet. He hopes they have a communal nap without him. _That would be nice,_ Bucky thinks - hopes they appreciate the extra share of meaty soup they’ll be getting without his dead weight weighing them down - hopes the pneumonia will finish him quickly. There’s little chance of that, he realizes moments later, as he conveniently upchucks on a guard’s boots.

Someone hits him, and he vomits again, on his hands and knees, spilled halfway out the cell door where they’ve dropped him; his vision a wash of grey and white, vomit and bile dripping down his chin.

“Starte den amerikanischen Abschaum auf!” **(Get up American scum!) **Someone snaps down at him, grabbing and yanking him down the corridor by his hair. He cries out, blind and confused - tries to grab at the arm and succeeds on the fourth swing, fingers locking feebly around the wrist there.

Someone breaks his fingers.

He doesn’t know how he knows, or how many - _God save me, how many have they broken_ \- but he chokes on a pained gasp and starts hacking his misery away instead.

“You Kraut fuckers!” Dugan yells from the next cage over, hands on closest bars. The men from his cell stay exactly where they are, German guns levelled at them, shuffling their feet and watching him with pity. Lieutenant Brackwood is looking between him and behind him with dislike, pity, a little disgust - he doesn’t particularly look his best at the moment - and_ relief._ They’ve pulled another healthy prisoner from across the hall and are frogmarching him past Bucky on the floor. They always take two when the guards do the rounds, sometimes taking them from separate blocks and sometimes from the same, extracting one healthy and one sick. He doesn’t know why.

_Just wait_, Bucky thinks almost savagely, catching the Lieutenant’s eye, _they might come for you next_. A moment later he almost vomits again - dry heaving - sick at his own thoughts.

“Steh auf!” The same guard, the one who has hold of his pulsing fingers, snaps and Bucky hears Jones bark something in German back from inside the cell, taking a step back when another one cocks his weapon. Bucky has only been in Europe for five months, but Steve’s tenement had more languages canned together than Clark Gable had leading ladies. He’s heard enough of Mrs Bakker shrieking in Dutch at her drunk of a husband through the walls, and from his German phrasebooks during his extra training to realize Jones is telling them ‘he can’t get up’.

The prisoner, the healthy one - the unlucky one this fine harvest day - is struggling ahead of him with his own pair but is having no more success than Bucky is. The guard on the prisoner’s left sticks him in the side with a prod, like he’s cattle; because that’s all they are to these Nazi fuckers, and sets off an electrical charge to bring the guy to his knees. They haul him back up, cursing and trembling, and drag him like they are with Bucky for the rest of the way.

He’s not sure how long they march him for, stumbling as he is through the maze of corridors endlessly turning this way and that but at some-point they seem to have descended a floor, and the factory walls turn from smooth plaster to exposed brick. 

The sun through the windows light what the bulbs don’t -----

“Warum will er diese überhaupt? Sie sind besser dran mit einer Kugel auf das Gehirn, es ist nicht, wie sie arbeiten können.” ** (Why does he even want these ones? They're better off with a bullet to the brain, it's not like they can work.”)**

“Doktor Zola sagt, dass sie ihre Verwendungszwecke-so schwach sie auch sind-besser als ein totes Subjekt haben." The one at his armpit replies, “Deshalb nimmt er sich zwei Mal Zeit, etwas über eine experimentelle Steuerung.”  
**(Doctor Zola says they have their uses - weak as they are - better a live subject than a dead one." The one at his armpit replies, “That's why he takes two a time, something about a experimental control”.)**

“Und es spart die Zeit, einen anderen herauszuziehen, wenn er sie früh tötet, mit dem Weg, den er durchläuft.   
**(“And it saves the time of dragging another one out when he kills them off early, with the way he goes through them.”)**

Bucky understands little of what they say, their rapid fire conversation too much for his elementary German and spinning head to follow, but he supposes he’ll find out soon enough. The guard, the motherfucker holding his fingers hostage laughs harshly, continuing. “Wenn es nicht für diesen fdoctor wäre, könnten wir so viele wie wir wollen schießen, ohne sich Gedanken darüber zu machen, dass die Arbeit nicht getan wird." **(“If it wasn't for that doctor we could shoot as many as we like without worrying about the work not getting done.")**

“Korporal schließen." The other one mutters, “Werner sagt, Doktor Zola macht Gottes Werk, die Arbeit, die sie die Welt verändern werden-”  
**(“Shut up, Corporal.” The other one mutters, “Werner says Doctor Zola's doing God's work, work that’ll change the world-”**

“Wir haben bereits die Technologie, um die Welt zu verändern." **(“We’ve already got the technology to change the world.”)**

“Das ist mehr als die Waffen und die ... " here he seems to pause, jolts Bucky upwards as he reaffirms his grip, “Die Entdeckung des Obergruppenführers. Sein neuer biologischer Arbeitszweig wird das Gesicht von allem verändern, es ist mehr als der Krieg, mehr als der arische Staat-Hydras größte Schöpfung.”  
**(“This is more than the guns and the…” here he seems to pause, jolts Bucky upwards as he reaffirms his grip, “Lieutenant General Schmitt’s discovery. Doctor Zola’s new biological branch of work will change the face of everything, it's more than the war, more than the Aryan state - Hydra's greatest creation.")**

He’s heard them mention Hydra before here,_ was that the insignia that was printed on every shell and shipping box? _

The other one snorts, “Sag mir, wenn ich mir nicht jeden Tag die Hände von Untermensch schälen muss, scherzt einer von ihnen an ihren eigenen Organen-hast du die letzte Woche gesehen?” He speak over Bucky’s head, “Sagen Sie mir, dass, wenn er nicht tötet sieben pro Woche und läuft aus dem Test Thema."  
**(The other one snorts, “ Tell me that when I don’t have to wash my hands of subhuman shit every-time one of them chokes on their own organs - did you see the ones last week?” He speaks over Bucky’s head, “Tell me that when he's not killing them weekly and running out of test subjects.")**

His voice quietens as they reach the middle of a damp hallway and hear the guards ahead of them speaking. A nasally voice answers. Bucky has no idea which part of the building they are in now, but thinks it must be the Isolation Ward in the East Wing; where soldiers would reappear sometimes rotting on trolleys for the prisoners to shove in the furnace; stinking of vomit and sour chemicals. He hasn’t had that privilege yet whilst he’s been here - _probably won’t now,_ he thinks,_ considering you’ll be the one burning_ \- but he’s met a few of the prisoners who have.

That French fellow - the one who’d ‘accidentally’ set off that shell under the stairway Lohmer had been standing atop of and the one Jones translated for, has done. They’d been in the same cell for the first four days before the Krauts rotated them out - he’s been here longer than the 107th has - months, and Bucky can remember him telling them the bodies smelt worse burning than they do on the battlefield. He’d had to burn the prisoners twice, three at a time with guards at his back, and their bodies had been carved open after death, insides blistered like his pop’s arm had blistered when ma had thrown the still-hot iron at him; missing eyes, teeth and sometimes arms and legs. Dernier; that was his name, had told Jones privately that the first four he’d burned had their tongues cut out, and that hadn’t been after they’d died.

Rosie Skyes, from Skye’s Bakery on 22nd street had a French cousin on her mothers side come stay with her once, and she spoke very little English. Her name was Colette and she educated young James Barnes many a day on the superiority of the French language of love.

The French word for tongue was ‘langue’ and beautiful Colette had educated him much and often on that matter also; older, alluring and more experienced, and so Bucky had listened to the two of them whispering whilst he pretended to sleep a few feet away. The next afternoon he’d taken a loose pipe, picked his target, and swung hard enough he doubted the Kraut would ever be able to get it up again. 

Steve doesn’t like bullies; _he’d be so proud of you_. God almighty, he missed Steve goddamn Rodgers.

He wonders what Steve’s doing now, hopefully not too sore sitting at home and hopefully missing another couple of papers stamped 4F - but really, who was Bucky kidding? He hopes he’s working, has picked up one the spare jobs going in the city now, and hopes he isn’t spending too much time hunched over The Times or listening to Mr Esposito’s radio obsessing over Hitler like he’s done before and after Pearl Harbour. He doesn’t want that fanatical life for Steve, almost as much as he doesn’t want this war for Steve either.

“Setzen Sie ihn dort,” comes the voice he heard through the doorway. There’s a short bespectacled, weasel of a man in front of him, gesturing to the other prisoner. This man, chubby and smartly dressed; looks harmless.

“Das ist der Kranke? Ich sehe ihn.” **(“Put him over there….This is the sick one? Let me see him.”)** The doctor questions, turning to look at him and grasping his jaw unexpectedly, turns his head left and right. _Surely with how much he’s thrown up and how tight his chest feels he can muster up something to spit in this guy’s face?_ As if hearing his thoughts the guard behind him deliberately closes his hand over Bucky’s fingers, twisting another one - not broken yet - backwards. Bucky bites his tongue.

_Oh God, Were they going to cut out his tongue? Was this weasel man the one who sliced out the tongues of the other men?_ Bucky suddenly swallows, feeling very small and very scared. He doesn’t want to die, not like this; not at all.

The man shines a light in his eyes, left and right, and Bucky flinches back from the brightness; starts coughing as the man then tries to look in his mouth.

“Hm.” The man hums, then speaks in English. “You have fluid in the lungs, soldier. A fever too, where are you from?” 

Snapping his mouth shut around a cough he grinds his teeth together, “Barnes. Sergeant. 325--” 

“--An American then.” The doctor cuts him off, looking unimpressed, and Bucky realizes it isn’t a German accent he’s speaking with. “I’m not surprised, you American soldiers don’t have the constitution to deal with wet winters on this side of the world.”

Bucky bristles. Unsure over why he feels so insulted by that - who was he? Steve Rodgers and his oversensitive temper? - he snaps out: “Barnes, Sergeant, 325570-----”

“Yes yes yes, I’ve heard it all before Sergeant. Put him with the other one.” The doctor directs the last part to the men around him, and turns away. The guards either-side of him steer him to the right, past the doctor, and Bucky finally focuses on his surroundings. There’s a man strapped down on a table at the centre of the room, moaning and slurring, a metal contraption hovering menacingly over his head. The guys trembling, bucking pathetically against the restraints as uncomfortable aftershocks ripple through his muscles.

The metal contraption - Bucky can’t see what it is at this angle and doubts he’s ever likely to have seen one before, is tall and arched, paired with a large round surgical light and trolley. Sunlight from the windows glints chillingly against the silver objects sat on the trolley tray, enough for Bucky to know he doesn’t want to know what they are. There’s a desk and a blackboard at the other end of the room - equations and calculations scrawled across it in chalk, a map of Europe printed on the wall with six triangles pinned to it. Shelves and more tables and lights - there’s two tables, Bucky realizes, one at the centre of the room and another tucked adjacently to the wall with a glass door leading to another office. He doesn’t get to glimpse anything else as the men turn him all the way, head already swiveled as far as it can go. He looks through the window instead, sees more brick buildings and water tanks, and beyond that up a hill; barbed wire fence and trees.

Its eerily silent down here, no sound of workers or construction or German soldiers walking the perimeter - and Bucky wonders if there’s an exit door down here. Wonders if he could find it, if he could run and make it with no one the wiser now there’s not a dozen guards watching his every move as they’d done upstairs. The grunts of the other prisoner draw his thoughts back into focus, feeling more awake now than he has since Jones tried to get his attention. They’re taking him through another door, and Bucky realizes too late as he’s taken over the threshold that it’s another cell attached to the lab, this one with concrete walls, no electricity and one tiny window. They shove him to the ground and he drops, trying to catch himself on his hands and skinning the side of his chin on the concrete when he doesn’t quite succeed. The other man’s being held face down; bent over, hands behind his back; face squashed onto a lumpy thin mattress laid atop a slab - serving, Bucky supposes, as a bed._ How very generous._

The guards holding the man down are pushing and snapping at him to shut up in German every time he curses and tries to struggle free. Keeping pressure on him, they turn to look above Bucky at his armed marchers, waiting for a nod to release the man so they can leave and lock the door behind them.

Bent over on the floor Bucky coughs wetly into his elbow and curls up around his fingers, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and catches the other soldier’s eye as they let him go; the man’s eyes are crazed. Two pistols cock above him, and the buzz of electricity sounds as one of the guards who’d freed him steps forward with his prod threateningly when it looks like the man’s going to charge at them.

“Fuck ye!” The man snarls, spitting a mouthful of blood at them.

The guards don’t dignify him with a response, just back off and swing the door shut; the lock clicks in place. The only light in the cell, an L-shaped room the size of a couple of broom closets with just enough room to lay down in, is a strip of yellow sunrise peaking through the tiny window in line with the ceiling. The darkness feels thick but is a relief for his head. 

“I’m nae dying in ‘ere ye Jerry scunners, I’ll murder th’ lot o’ ye! Ye hear me, ye cocksuckers?!” The man bangs on the door with his fists, yelling in a thick accent Bucky realizes must be Scottish through the sudden pounding of his head. Unable to think of something that doesn’t sound incredibly rude like ‘you wanna shut your pie hole, you inconsiderate piece of shit' - Bucky coughs. 

(Sarah Rodgers used to tell him he would ‘never get a girl if you keep that foul mouth up James Barnes, it won’t endear you to anyone, let alone a respectable young lady.’ 

Having felt angry and particularly vindictive one afternoon at thirteen years old, Bucky had shot back, ‘I’m sorry, have you met my mother?’ Steve had nearly slugged him for speaking to his ma that way, and Bucky isn’t proud of it, but when he thought back now (and then, he supposes) Sarah had looked like she’d bitten her tongue to keep from saying back ‘your mother isn’t a respectable lady’.

His ma; his temperamental, _beautiful_ ma with the biggest potty mouth he knows, and Sarah; calm, collected and weary beyond her years Sarah, were as different as could be. It was for the best that Sarah had held her tongue when she did, even if Bucky knew what she had wanted to say, because he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted back then if she hadn't - bewildering and complicated as his relationship had been with Mrs. Barnes at that age. 

In the end though, as usual, Sarah had been right, and he didn’t get anywhere near as many swats on the hand from Sister Joan’s ruler as he had before he’d learnt to be a ‘nice respectable young man’. 

_I know you’ve got it in you James; and you do too, so stop pretending to be something you’re not_.)

The Scotsman carries on undeterred by Bucky’s coughs, cursing out the Germans and their mamas and their papas and their country in the most colourful language he’s ever heard - and his ma’s record is hard to beat.

“Hey!” Bucky yells hoarsely, ready to throw the empty food tray by his foot at the guy if he doesn’t shut it. “That ain’t going to work, so cut it out would ya? You’re giving me a headache.”

“A'm givin' ye a headache?” The guy scoffs, “Well fuck ye, but getting outta 'ere is mar’ important tae me that yer sore bloody head. Let us out o' 'ere ye cocksuckers-”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters, picks up the tray.

“Don’t even think about it, ye Yank.” The Scotsman warns, cutting off his cursing to point at Bucky.

Bucky says, “You think if you curse out their mothers enough they’ll come apologize and let you out? All you’re gonna’ do is piss them off _and get yourself shot._” The man growls at him, “Seriously, pal.” Bucky repeats, his voice cracking in the middle.

The man growls one last time and bangs his fist once more against the door, spins and collapses on the cot, head in his hands. 

Like the darkness, the silence lies heavy as Bucky tries to push himself up. His fingers twinge painfully as they catch on the ground when he moves. His hiss of pain devolves into a coughing fit and he sits there, broken fingers cradled to his chest, hacking into his other elbow.

“Ye alright?”

Bucky looks up as he’s finishing, the other prisoner is watching him. He tries to grin sardonically before grimacing as he tries to wiggle his fingers. “I’ve been better,” is all he says, then closes his eyes and tips his head back. The guy still doesn’t get the message to shut up.

“Who ye with?”

“Huh?” Bucky asks, opening his eyes.

“What regiment? Ye’r American, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who called me a Yank, so you tell me.” Bucky rebuts, then takes a breath. “The 107th.”

The man doesn’t seem to have recognized it, so he says, “Where we’r you caught?”

Bucky coughs once into his fist, “Azzano.”

“They caught hundreds o’ ye then; must a’ been a big battle a’ suppose.” The man nods, “You been ‘ere then, what, two weeks? A week?”

“Yeah? Who the hell knows, man.” Bucky forces himself to ask, “What ‘bout you?”

“Couple o' weeks ‘fore, we were reinforcing part o' th' 46th infantry. Us 'n' another unit - Parachute Brigades. About 30 o' mah division survived it, none o' th' other ones did, ‘cept th' Major in charge.”

Bucky grimaces, “Harsh.”

“Shouldn't have gotten a' o' his men killed then. He was th' commanding bobby; when only th' bobby survives it’s not shit Intel or shit luck, ‘t’s bad command. Farsworthy or something like that.”

“Right.” Bucky says, seeing as talking is apparently what they were doing now.

“You seem awful calm...for someone who's just been taken some kind o' lab.” the guy then adds, looking at Bucky suspiciously.

Bucky tries to think how to explain; thinks about not, then tells himself he doesn’t need an enemy in the same cell. “Expected it I guess.”

“What th’ fuck ye on about?”

“You heard me hacking just now, right? I’m sick. They take the sick ones, I knew I was done for when the fever started. My guys tried to hide it for a while but I knew I’d get caught. They always”--cough--”take the sick - French guy said so, and how they--” Bucky cuts himself off, the guy doesn’t need to know what else they do to them. “Besides, I was already on their radar.”

“How’s that?”

“You know about Lohmer? The commander in the camp with the purple--”

“The one th’ stairway fell on top of. Ye I know him. Ah thought that was a group o’--”

Bucky shakes his head to stop him, “Retaliation,” he explains, “For him beating me half to death after I swung a shell at his second in command’s dick.”

The man starts laughing inexplicably, guffawing like he can’t help it.“Jesus Christ,” the guys finally cracks, shaking his head. After another moment, he says. “The tak’ the’ healthy ones too ye know, a’m ‘ere, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits, “But they always take the sick.”

“You said yer guys tried to hide ye - ye an Officer?”

“Sergeant.” Bucky quips, rubbing at his pounding head, mindful of his fingers.

“You g’t a name_ Sergeant?_” He cracks his eyes open to see the guy watching him expectantly, and slightly mockingly.

“Barnes. Buck---James Barnes.”

“Barnes.” The guy hums, “Not so nice tae make ye’ acquaintance Barnes. Andrew McNair. Corporal, her Majesty’s 78th Division; fresh from Africa.”

_Africa._ His pa died in Africa.

“Not so nice to meet you too, McNair.”

The guy pulls him up by the hand once he’s shaken it and Bucky stumbles into him. “Easy, ye goddamn Yank. Ah know I’m a bonny bit but na need tae throw yerself at me.”

“Fuck off” Bucky responses, almost smiling. He feels like he hasn’t smiled in so long.

The man, McNair, steadies him and then offers him the cot. “You look lik’ yer need it more than I do.”

. . .

  
McNair likes to talk. Bucky learns this very quickly. When he’s angry, when he’s confused, when he’s worried and when he’s pretending to be calm; all in the space of an hour. The sun breaches the horizon high in the sky on their side of the building and it gets lighter in the cell.

With the extra light, Bucky can make out more details. There’s a food slot at the bottom of the door, and another at eye-level, that the Krauts can slide open on their end. There’s a bucket; for shitting, and a drain; for pissing and a bucket of drinking water sat under leaking tap. There’s three trays on the floor. He doesn’t think anything of it at first or that two are dirty but empty of food and one is full. The foods old, looks like it’s been sat there for days, so it isn’t as appealing now if it ever was before. Bucky’s hungry, as he always is, but is too nauseous to keep anything down. McNair doesn’t have nausea holding him back, or even that high standards it seems, and Bucky catches him staring longingly at the tray.

“Fucking don’t.”

“A’m hungry.”

“That stuff will kill you before the Krauts will. Don’t.”

“I could avoid th’ worst bits, besides it’s nae that---”

“Oh my God McNair, don’t.”

Now, Bucky is used to scrounging for food, especially during the worst years of the Depression when even ma paused trying to decide whether to buy cabbage or knock-off hooch, but he also has common goddamn sense. You don’t eat meat or fish, whether it’s new and in the dumpster or old and in the dumpster, or anything Mrs Crammer offers you ever unless you want to shit your guts out of your ass. You absolutely don’t eat poultry that’s a few days old and out of the fridge. You can cut off the mold on bread and eat that and leafy greens are generally okay if you cut off mold and wash them for good measure, but he has his limits. Standards for not killing himself over a measly bit of corner beef. Sarah Rodgers taught him, his ma, and his sister well when they had to move from their house after they lost their savings. She’d taught them how to survive on a five dollar budget, how to feed a family of six and still have extra food left over for the working man of the house, and how to make stew last for days.

She has a lot of neat tricks, that Sarah Rodgers, his pa used to say as Becca and his ma pickled onions they picked up from the church pot-luck and stirred chipped beef into the pasta he’d managed to slip into his pack from the base’s canteen on his way out - following the instructions Steve’s ma had written out. She may not have known it, but Sarah Rodgers had saved the Barnes those first years after the Crash when his father’s cut down hours were unable to.

“What th' bugger is that?”

McNair’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts and Bucky turns, wheezing now, to see him staring trance-like at the L part of the cell, the corner shrouded in darkness. Bucky twists to look, leaning forward; food forgotten. 

There’s a pair of booted feet, shoe-laces untied.

“What the hell?” Bucky whispers.

McNair stands, “Hello?” he calls.

Bucky keeps blinking, waiting for the feet to disappear - that maybe the fever’s making him see things. There’s another prisoner in the cell. _How did they not notice another prisoner in the cell? Why hadn’t he spoken up?_ “Is he sleeping?”

McNair kicks at a foot in response to Bucky’s question.

“Jesus Christ Mc---”

His admonishment is cut off as the prisoner, face and body still in the darkness, jerks backwards like he’s been burned and starts keening. The foot disappears with him into the darkness.

“Shit.” Bucky mutters and pushes himself off the cot as quickly as he can without fainting. He veers into the wall, catching himself on his palm before thudding down to the guy’s level. He notices McNair behind him. “Hey. Hey.” Bucky says soothingly, in the voice he used to use on Lily and Jenna when they had nightmares. “Take it easy, pal. We’re not--were not gonna hurt you---we’re not Krauts, you get that?”

The man keeps keening, the incoherent sounds turning into long moans. 

“Hey.” Bucky tries again, getting closer and reaching a hand out slowly, telegraphing his movement. He squints into the dark, trying to see more of the guy, but the sun’s at the wrong angle and the window’s so small that it’s still too dark to see properly. He thinks the guys got red hair - ginger like a carrot, and he’s covered in boils and some kind of rash. He’s not looking at Bucky, and doesn’t seem to be able to even if he wanted. Avoiding the rash he goes to touch a sleeve-clad arm. “Easy pal.”

“Barnes, ah dinnae think that’s a good idea.”

“Shut up McNair.”

“But--”

“I said shut it.”

The man has his arms held up on either side of his head. Bucky touches his arm as lightly as he can. “Hey pal, what happened - what they do to you in---”

The guy howls, mouth open wide.

Bucky flinches back onto his butt, scarpering two feet away like he’s been struck. McNair, already defensive, is stood between them telling the guy to “fucking calm down ye kook, he's just trying tae help --Barnes?”

“Shit shit shit shit shit” Bucky rants, still scrambling back until he hits the corner of the bed. He breaks off his own cursing to cough into his good hand; presses it over his mouth in horror afterwards.

\---The man has quietened again and is moaning and slurring intelligibly in the corner, turned away from them----

“Barnes, Barnes what? What's it Jimmy?”

Bucky shakes his head, staring at the dark corner that has swallowed all view of the other prisoner. He can’t un-see it. He can’t un-see it.

McNair switches to ignoring the guy, like he’s ignoring them. He crouches to Bucky’s level, but doesn’t touch him. Bucky, like the keening man, doesn’t think he can deal with touch at the moment. “Barnes, what---”

“He has no tongue.”

McNair freezes, “What?” 

“He has no tongue. _He has no tongue,_ they cut out his tongue - oh god it’s real he was right. Dernier was right, he wasn’t lying - oh god, fuck, shit shit _shit_\---” He keeps going, over and over, panic finally setting in over the resignation. McNair doesn’t stop him, completely frozen, staring at him having a panic attack. “Shit shit shit - oh god, I can’t I can’t breathe. I can’t--”

McNair’s head rockets to the corner, then to him and he moves, takes Bucky by the forearm. “Barnes, Barnes, are ye sure--”

“Of course I’m fucking sure. I saw - oh god they cut---they cut---”

McNair looks sick.

He looks over at the corner again, presses the back of his hand against his own mouth as if to protect it. He turns and yanks Bucky up and physically turns them both from the corner. “Breathe Barnes. Breathe.”

“I can’t---I can’t.”

Bucky’s crying. That’s what he realizes first. He’s so sick and so scared all of a sudden he’s crying. They cut out his tongue. The first four had their tongues cut out. _Does that mean they’re going to_\---He gasps for breath. McNair slaps his back until it forces him to start hacking and inexplicably the new coughing fit snaps him out of his panic. The man in the corner has quietened down completely - gone back to sleep.

Bucky breathes, recovering - and clings to his dog-tags the way he always does, tries to remember any magical Romanai curses he’s heard his ma speak off so he can curse them. So he can curse every last one of them.

“Ye good?”

Bucky nods, opens his eyes from where they’re squeezed shut. “I’m sorry” he gasps.

“Don’t pal.” McNair says after a moment, looks over his shoulder. He doesn’t look hungry anymore. “ Ye weren’t---ye weren’t expecting that--” The guy shakes his head, and whispers under his breath, “Bloody hell.”

. . .

After an intermittent time later, when Bucky’s calmed down, McNair breaks off from telling him about his family and the familiar tapping sequence Bucky’s keeping up against the bed frame slows. He’s half-sat-half-laid-up on the cot, McNair sat on the floor opposite. They both have their backs to the corner - neither of them willing to turn and acknowledge the sick man in the corner. 

“What did ye mean before?” Bucky raises his head, quirks an eyebrow in askance. “When ye were---”

“Shitting myself like--”

“When ye wer’ panicking.” McNair continues, giving him dignity he doesn’t deserve.”You said a - Deriniman or something was right - that h’ weren’t lying.”

_Well, you might as well tell him now, now you both know the truth_ \- no avoiding the horror anymore.

“Dernier.” Bucky corrects, “he was a French guy, the one who blew up the staircase. He’s the one who told me they take the sick before I saw it for myself.” McNair nods in understanding. “They’ve made him burn a bunch of the bodies from - well, from here. He told us what state they were in--you don’t need to--”

“Yes I’ do.” McNair cuts him off, “I need tae know what’s b’n done to them, ah need tae be prepared.”

“I don’t think---”

“'n' I didnae think touching that kook was a good idea but ye did 'n' look what happened. You know, I don’t. Time to level th' playing field Barnes. What dae ye know?”

Bucky swallows, knows this isn’t going to go down easy. “Cut open after they’ve died, insides burnt up,” he sums up. “Missing stuff like eyes and feet and---”

“An’ tongues.” McNair finishes, looking green.

“Among other things,” Bucky swallows again, mouth dry. “He said it looked like that had all happened after they died - wounds were fresh, you know? - apart from the tongues - he thought that might have happened before.”

“Bloody hell,” McNair whispers again, “To stop them talking, dae ye think?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky tells him. “I wasn’t supposed to hear that bit. The guy only speaks French and Jones - one of mine I guess, can speak it, so he was translating for us when needed. But I know a bit from a - from a girl back home a few years ago. I don’t think they realized I could understand them.”

McNair wipes a hand down his face and looks away. Bucky thinks he might be trying not to cry like he did. He curses to himself as he usually does. They’ve been in here all day - it must be late afternoon now. They can’t hear anything through the metal door, McNair’s already tried and checked it twice.

“Well, it'd be a bit pointless for th’m tae cut out our tongues.” McNair comments. Bucky looks to him, eyebrow raised at his faux-upbeat tone. “If they cut out our tongues we cannae give th’m intel.”

“What if they don’t want intel?”

“They do. They always do, that’s what th’y teach ye, 'n' ye'r a Sergeant.”

“So?”

“So that guy? Was a Priavte - ah’ clocked ‘is rank on his tags.”

Bucky calls bullshit, “How did you see that? I was closer and I didn’t even see that much.”

“You were a lil’ preoccupied wi' th' fact _he had nae tongue._ He's a private 'n' so he doesn’t know jobby. But ye'r a Sergeant, ye know more o' th' bases, orders 'n' formations 'n' that - they'll actually have th' chance to be able tae get answers th’y need out o' ye. Cannae do that if ye have na tongue.”

Bucky shakes his head, scoffing, but can’t help pointing out the one flaw in his logic. “You’re not a officer.”

McNair tips his head up in challenge, “I’d like them to try and take it.”

Bucky closes his eyes, “Please don’t say that to them” because McNair actually would, the reckless motherfucker.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only taken me, what, nine years to write my first fic in this universe.
> 
> This era in life as well as in this universe is one of the most interesting to me, with the World War/ Howling Commandos tag being the one I go back to every time, so after spending years reading and writing for myself I've finally gotten round to posting one of many to the rest of you lovely lot. I've got a plan and several chapters written (releasing at least one a week, maybe two depending on the length so I can keep up), but am still not entirely sure how certain relationships will progress, so this will probably be a slow burner if it does end up in that direction (I'm sure you can work that direction out for yourselves ;) ). I will admit, my thing has and always normally been just Gen/ Friendship fics but who knows, that may change. Enjoy! I hope you like it!
> 
> Pre-warning: There will be Human Experimentation/Torture written and referenced in the next few chapters, as obviously this chronicle starts in Krausberg under Zola, along with a very brief reference to Non-Consensual Touching. So if that's not your cup of tea, be smart, look after yourself and click away.
> 
> REFERENCES:  
(2) KRAUT/JERRY : Kraut is the American name for German soldiers. Jerry is the British name for German soldiers.  
(3) HYDRA ELECTRICAL BATONS/TAZORS - Reference image taken from Captain America: The First Avenger video game concept art.  
(4) Balavas/bixbat - good and bad luck in the Romany language  
(5) Poshrat - Derogatory term for a ‘Half breed gypsy’ in the Roma language.  
(6) PALMOLOGY - The study of perceiving the future through the lines on your palm.  
(8) Bucky’s Catholic References - The Plagues of Egypt, from the Exodus in the bible. Typically also known as the story of Moses, and his and God’s quest to free Gods People, the “ Israelites” from slavery by enacting 10 plagues, with the last killing every firstborn child and creature unless they could prove they were faithful and believed the plague to be real, sacrifying a lamb and painting it’s blood on the doorway of their houses.
> 
> (9) Romanai traditions and beliefs  
.Jainism (understanding), and bibaxt(bad luck) and muló (supernatural spirits or ghosts)  
.JAINISM : Jainism is still upheld by many of the Roma people. Jainism is a practise – a way of life, which is meant to date back to the 7th century, originating in ancient India. Jainism is practised by the Roma gypsy people where the church and the priest are the Universe and the open fields and sky.
> 
> (10) Clark Gable - one of the most famous Hollywood actors of the 30s and the 40s, and the leading man in most Romance pictures, portrayed as the ideal man to the women of those eras. His most famous picture was the unforgettable Gone with the Wind, released in 1940. 
> 
> SOURCES AND REFERENCES: In my head canon Bucky’s mother was Romani, which at the time before (and obviously during WW11) were often persecuted and considered untrustworthy out of a lack of understanding of the culture, and so was something kept private within the family. Raising children to follow in the Father’s faith (Christian/Catholic) was common at the time in ‘mixed’ religious families, though often both parents were looked down upon for the relationship, especially the mothers (as typical in Jewish families for example) were often excommunicated. This is very similar in Romanai culture as they are in many ways extremely insular and private, even to other types of Romani people. They can be belittled, ostracized and excommunicated for something as little as dropping a cloth - and this is what happened to Bucky’s mother when she married his father.  
CULTURE: The vast majority of Romany laws revolve around the belief that the universe is separated into what is clean and what is dirty (marime). Being marime — or coming into contact with marime things — can cause a range of conditions including bad luck, sickness, disease and death. Once an item is classed as marime, they would avoid or limit contact with that thing. They’re taught what is marime and what is not from the moment they are born. Avoiding dirtiness impacts how they act, think and speak. They believe that some people can be so marime that just by spending time with them, you can become marime by association; this is another reason why you will not be accepted into a group of Romany individuals. They always wash dishes in a ritualistic manner which takes into account how much contact they have with the mouth. Cups would go first, in the cleanest water, because you put your mouth directly to a cup. Pots are always washed last, because the body has no direct contact with food from a pot; food goes from the pot to a dish. The strict way to life even extends to their thoughts. Romany people avoid talking badly about ill people because they believe that illnesses can be attracted to them by the power of the mind.


	2. PART 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers Dernier’s words and the home-movie imagery that had sprung from it, about blistering insides; hundreds of pockets of pus sealed over with a layer of skin. He thinks about his mother’s iron. Dernier had been right. Whatever had been done to those men had burned right through them - not like a fever but like wildfire racing through the veins - literally burning them alive.
> 
> He knows this because they’re doing the same to him.

BUCKY

He doesn’t notice the small unassuming doctor he's already met until they’re about to strap him down to a leather-lined slab, eyes instead catching on another prisoner shivering on the other table, whose obviously been there a while. There’s spots of blood, old and new, on the floor beneath the guy. He bucks, trying to get away, but they’d clipped some kind of collar around their necks, his and McNair’s, and then latched the clip of his to a guard’s metal rod as tall as Steve. He’d been dragged and maneuvered bodily by his neck, two other guards taking him by the arms once the cell door was shut and McNair’s shouts had faded. He _does_ notices the doctor when they heave him up onto table, frowning down at a brown leather records book in displeasure. He turns to look at him and looks even less pleased as Bucky fails to kick a guard before they strap down his thighs, tight enough to cut off the circulation, his nose running.

  
Wriggling helplessly against the straps the guards force him down by his neck, yanking at the restraint collar until he chokes, shocked, and lands hard on the metal table. Pain rockets from the tips of his broken fingers to his knuckles as his other hand scrabbles at it pointlessly. He feels more leather and buckles strap him down at the shins, stomach, chest, shoulders and wrists. _What did they think he was, some kinda' superhero from the comics, to be able to get out off this?_ As his coughing subsides, the man slides his thumb under the leather to press against his good wrist, counting his pulse while looking at a battered watch. 

  
“You a doctor?” Bucky coughs; would spit if his mouth wasn’t so dry. “Yeah _you_. Get away from me, I don’t need no Kraut doctor near me, you hear that, you Nazi Fuck? Get away----”

A gloved hand backhands him across the face, and Bucky bites back from crying out. He licks his lip, tastes blood and glares at the guard, “That the best you god Stinzel? My sister can hit harder than that.” 

He hears the doctor vaguely snap in German at the guard when he raises his hand again. The guard responds in a rapid-fire that Bucky can’t follow, but manages to grasp the doctor ordering the guards to get out. The man obeys, if grudgingly._ Huh,_ Bucky thinks, _who would have thought this smuck was in charge?_

He releases Bucky’s wrist, the spot clammy and uncomfortable when he does. The doctor turns away for a long moment, doing something with his hands that Bucky can’t see - he turns back holding a syringe, something yellow inside. It doesn’t look like medicine.

“What the hell is that? What the hell is that - get away---”

The doctor ignores him, and sticks him with it. It burns with cold, like when he used to stick his bare hands in piles of snow until they went tingly and numb to see which of his cousins would last the longest, but it starts from his elbow and moves to his fingers instead of the other way round. He doesn’t make a sound through it, just feels his whole body start shiver as it spreads. His silence changes as the doctor pulls out another, filled with a milky liquid and moves so Bucky can see a whole tray of them - vials, needles, forceps and shiny scalpels. Bucky snarls and wrenches against the straps, starts snapping and shouting in all the German he does know. The Nazi quack rolls his eyes, like he’s bored by Bucky’s violent struggle - Bucky can’t imagine it’s all that impressive - but he puts the milky-filled needle down, picks up another one and jabs it hard into his thigh. Bucky half yelps out a curse, still slamming his body and head against the table until he nearly gives himself a concussion trying to flip it over.  
His tongue abruptly goes thick in his mouth, and for a moment Bucky thinks it’s swelling up before he realizes it’s just numb and sticking to the roof of his mouth. His head rocks back, and he slurs out a “Fuuucc’ ‘ou"; feels his mind go cloudy and his muscles slacken. The doctor hums in triumph and turns him at the neck so his cheek’s laid out against the padded table. Bucky’s eyes drift until he’s staring at the other solider shivering glassy eyed across from him, and feels the doctor slide another needle home into his jugular vein. 

  
He moans softly as the doctor does it, and thinks _that’s not going to happen to me._  
  
  


. . .

He drifts awake again; concrete under him, a Scottish voice above him as someone - _McNair?_ \- drags him across the floor and onto a springy cot.

“Huh?” he mumbles incomprehensively, swinging his arm out.

“Relax pal, relax. ‘is me, McNair, tak' it pumpin' easy, Christ.”

Bucky stops swinging out, his vision blurry, and curls his hand around his dog tags and presses, as he usually does. Someone’s splinted his broken fingers.

“What did thay do tae ye in there?” McNair asks seriously, once Bucky’s sat up, more awake and not coughing his lungs out of his own throat. Bucky wipes the blood from his mouth, lip stinging, and pushes out the words McNair needs to know; his tongue still thick. The red-haired prisoner is still curled in the corner, in the same spot, slurring to himself. 

“They--the doctor, stuck me with needles.” He says, rubbing at the most painful spot on his neck “He said---knew I was sick, said as much when they brought us here. But it wasn’t medicine I don’t think, not any kind I ever saw before - and I saw a lot with Ste--with my pal back home, he’s sick a lot. It wasn’t medicine.” He finishes, sure of it now.

“Just wi’ needles? Nothin’ else? They ask ye anythin’?”

Bucky shakes his head, still feeling a little fuzzy. “No . No. He, the doctor didn’t say anything to me anyway. He stuck me with something that made me sleepy when I started fighting…I don’t remember anything after that, must have passed out.”

“Huh.” The guy says, “I thought fur’ sure they’d ask questions. G’t intel. That’s what they always say will happen.”

“I dunno pal,” Bucky says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, starts silently counting how many holes he can feel in his elbow.

McNair curses quietly, as he usually does Bucky’s come to learn, and says, “A’d offer ye a cuppa but I’m all out, ‘m afraid. Gotta hauld yer horses for the Jerry fuckers tae feed us.”

Bucky huffs, half hysterical. “Where’ve you been the last few weeks? No way out outta' here unless you wanna’ top yourself.”

“Bugger that shite. I ain’t dying ‘ere, n’, ye ain’t either.”

Bucky glances at their delirious cellmate, the _what about him,_ clear. “You really believe that? That other fella strapped down out there, you’ll see --it’ll be us - _you_ \- next.”

  
“I ain’t dying ‘ere.” He repeats, “Ye start thinking that n’ ye’r lost already- Barnes. I ain’t dying ‘ere.”  
  


. . .

  
  
The second time Bucky’s taken to the lab McNair’s been in there three times. They ask him questions on the third, but none before that, just like Bucky. Like Bucky, he’s given several shots, but no yellow vials - and they keep him awake, so he knows exactly what’s gone in him. Unlike Bucky he’s given a vial with green serum that burns hot when it goes in, not cold, and makes his heart pound and his blood rush straight to his brain until he feels almost dizzy with energy.

  
“Huh.” Bucky says when he tells him, watching his blown pupils warily. They studiously ignore the prisoner in the corner, the way he does them.

  
When they do ask McNair questions, about the British Army and British formations; it’s the type of questions they did expect, which is and isn’t a relief. It’s SS officers in all their medal-led glory that ask the questions while their lackeys administer punishment; not the doctor. They cover McNair’s face with a towel and pour water onto it until he thinks he’s drowning, which is horrifying even if it again, is expected. The doctor, whose name is Zola, Bucky finds out, apparently seems to be unhappy and more than a little annoyed by the officers’ presence - and stops them when they go to cut off McNair’s little finger.

Bucky feels ill and frightened, not at all mollified when McNair comes back with four fingers splinted instead and a tale of how_ Doctor Zola_ stopped them because he was a test subject first - and if they cut off his finger it could skew his results somehow.

“Maybe he only cuts off parts wh’n they’re already dead, lik’ yer French guy said,” McNair says, scratching at a new rash on his arm with his unbroken fingers. “So it doesn’t skew his test results.”

“That’s not any better."

“Can’t feel it if ye’r already dead,” McNair quips back.

Eyes closed, Bucky retorts, “Thought you weren’t dying in here.”  


. . .

They ask him questions the second time, and Bucky see’s what McNair means about these spotless medal-led smucks who look like they smell something dirty when they bring Bucky in. They probably do. He hasn’t washed in days; has only been able to smell carbolic soap and sour chemicals since Zola’s first injections, which a small relief from his own stink.

_Now’s the time to see if these perfect Aryan men actually can smell the gypsy in my blood_, he thinks savagely and remembers the curse he tried to place on them. He wishes the grandmother he’s never met hadn’t excommunicated his mother when she married his pa now, because then maybe he would have learnt more of their traditions. Maybe he actually could curse someone properly, have them fall down a well and brain themselves on the stone on the way down.

Zola stops them from doing the water thing within seconds. "Dieses Thema leidet schon an Pneumonia, das hilft nicht weiter," he tells them in German - which isn't much help to Bucky.** (“This subject is suffering from pneumonia already, this will not help,” he tells them in German - which isn't much help to Bucky.)**

The men respond, “Er ist ein Gefangener, seine Gesundheit ist für uns wenig wichtig.” **(“He’s a prisoner, his health is little matter to us.”)**

“Es ist mir wichtig---” ** (“It matters to me---”)**

“Er ist Gefangener--” **(“He is a prisoner--”)**

“He is a Testthema” Zola switches to English. “My test subject. The Obergruppenführer has left me in command here, and this solider is under my care” --_is that what we’re calling it?_\---”Schmitt approves and is kept well informed of developments here, you understand? You may ask your questions, then you can leave. I have work to do, work the Obergruppenführer is expecting swift results from.”

They ask their questions: “who is your Commanding Officer, what were your next orders after Azzano”, leave off the water and stick to his face on account of his still healing ribs and ratty lungs. He can’t see out of one eye when they leave but is proud of himself; his rank and serial number still on his lips because_ goddammit_ he’s a three-time welterweight boxing champion - he knows how to take a punch. Zola mutters what he’s pretty sure is an “about time” from the tone in a language that isn’t German when they leave.

The needles start again - yellow, milky and yellow again. Bucky stays awake this time, and hears Doctor Zola order the usual guards to do something. He vaguely sees them over and above him with his one eye as they lay a leather strap directly across his forehead. He hears them buckle, but not tighten it, by his ear. Yet.

“_Barnes. Sergeant._ 32557038\. Barnes. Sergeant 32557038.”

There’s a big commotion elsewhere in the room away from the Zola’s dictation, which sounds like wheels squeaking across the floor. Bucky cuts of his recitation a moment to recognize that whatever they’re wheeling towards him is heavy and made of metal. Like a cylinder, or a large engineered pipe, Bucky feels them wheel it over him until he -- and the table -- are in it’s centre. Zola appears by his head - _when did he get there?_ \- and attaches some kind of frame over the collar he’s wearing. “What _are you_\----” Bucky cuts himself off and forces himself to revert to what he’s been trained to do - to find bravery in it. “Bar-Barnes. Sergeant 32557038.”

Zola lifts the dog tags up from where resting on his chest over his heart. Bucky bites back a snarl. Zola looks at the metal, canting his head sideways to read them. “Sergeant Barnes.” he muses, like Bucky hasn’t been spitting it at his face for hours. He pulls them off, slides them over the frame and over his head. “You won’t want to be wearing these when my _Vita-Kammer_ is turned on Sergeant, the heat will burn the metal right through your skin. Don’t worry, I’ll give them back later.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, “_Barnes._ Sergeant 32557038.”

They slide the machine over his chest, up to his collar bone. They attach it to the frame Bucky’s wearing like some kind of Elizabethan collar and slide more casing over it so his whole body’s confined from feet to neck. It’s bulky, and ugly and as it latches him inside. As the air is suctioned out of it Bucky inexplicably pictures an ‘iron lung.’ He’s never seen one in person before but he knows they exist; great cumbersome beasts that hospitals shove boys and girls with polio in and never take them out. Archie Leopold caught polio when they were five and Bucky vaguely remembers the panic of the teachers and the parents as they pulled all the children out of school for fear of it spreading. It spreads like wildfire, he learns later once he’s older; it paralyzes your muscles and then your lungs and there’s no cure. Only time and treatment. He didn’t know it at the time, was too busy enjoying the long days of playing in New York snow, but Archie Leopold lost all feeling right up to his hips, and the hospital put him in one of those machines. He lived in that same machine, a mirror hanging above him, for three years before he died anyway.

He waits for it to force air back into his lungs and breathe for him but nothing happens. One of the guards grabs him by the cheeks to force his mouth open and he starts struggling; all the while knowing he’s going nowhere. Zola slides something in his mouth between his teeth. 

“Bite down.” He says.

Bucky doesn’t and the guard forces his mouth closed, ties something under his chin and the top of his head until he’s clenching the plastic with his teeth and can’t move his jaw. The guard knots it at the back of his skull and Bucky slams his head down on the guard’s hand, hard, until his vision whites out for a moment. 

The guard swears, clutching his hand - moves forward.

“Get out.” Zola orders promptly. He rebuckles the strap on his forehead so it's so tight Bucky can't even frown. He turns to the other one. “Turn it on.”

They power up the machine and it shakes, rods clanging together like kitchen pans in a childhood musical. He feels the heat for the first time - he feels his blood_ boiling._

**. . .**

He comes to shaking. His head is buzzing, fuzzing in and out, and he’s already talking, saying something he can’t hear. He’s still on the table, still strapped down but the strap on his forehead, the mouth guard and the frame attached to his neck are gone.

_He’s hot_, that’s his second thought, like someone’s shoved a hot poker down his throat right the way to the base of his guts, and it’s burning to get out. _If he opens his mouth can he breathe smoke, breathe fire?_ It feels that way, like his blood is bubbling up like soup in a saucepan ready to blow the lid off in an explosion of steam. _He can’t see_ \- that’s his third thought, _he’s blind in one eye. They’ve taken it. It’s gone, it’s gone like that kook’s tongue is - they’ve scooped it out with a spoon and his eye’s gone._

All at once he remembers the beating, and remembers his eye swelling up halfway through._ It’s okay, it’s still there._ At the same time his hearing snaps back into focus - someone’s keening and choking out incoherrant slurs. They’ve brought the other one out, is what Bucky thinks at first, then realizes it’s coming from him.

He can’t stop.

Someone, Zola, is touching him; he recognizes the clammy touch; the only one who wears gloves that aren’t made out of leather. Bucky thinks he feels more free - less constrained. They’ve pulled out his arm from the restraint and are - measuring it?

Zola’s reading out, “25 Zoll, 14 Zoll; Dicke, 11 Zoll Unterarm” ** (“25 inches, Thickness; 14 inches, 11 inches forearm)”** and someone’s scribbling down his dictation. Bucky tries to move to take advantage of the freedom but he can’t get even the one arm to stop trembling let alone throw a punch or to undo any buckles. With no warning Zola finishes and just lets go - Bucky’s arm drops like a deadweight, hits the table and slides off the edge of it until it hangs limply.

He’s breathing and hiccuping in time with the trembles. Zola starts measuring his chest.

Something groans. He recognizes that too; the hinges on the door of their cell. He’s staring at the ceiling, he’s trembling and he doesn’t understand what he’s still trying to say. 

“Ah yes, load him onto the other one. I’m almost finished.” Zola says.

“Barnes? Barnes!”

_McNair?_

“Barnes, Barnes yer arms are free - move! Shift ye bloody idiot - you’re free!”

_I can’t move. I can’t. I want to but I’m so hot. Is this what Steve feels like when they call the priest on him, like he’s so hot he’s going to burn up and turn to ash?_

“Barnes!---” McNair’s voice cuts off into a choke; there’s a struggle he can’t see; buckles click into place. 

Zola moves into his eyeline, “Sergeant Barnes?” he calls, and flicks him at the centre of the forehead.

. . .

He wakes again, his arm hanging off the edge of their cot like it did on the table. There’s three people slurring; only one of them is him. The usual culprit is still in the corner, hasn’t moved or eaten in days - they’d tried to feed him but he just howls from the ruin of his mouth whenever they touch him - so he’s wasting away. The other one, the other one is the one he’d seen blitzed out on the table the first time round - lying flat on his back.

“Hey.” Bucky croaks and falls hard off the bed onto his knees. He grunts, barely missing his scraped up chin. He’s still trembling - to the point he can’t feel his broken fingers. He rolls himself so he’s sat down, bed frame keeping him upright; and nudges the other solider with his foot with as much dexterity as he can manage. He wraps his arms around himself like dames used to do as a comfort, around the chest and up over his shoulder; digging his fingers into his sweaty shirt. He kicks again at the guy, harder. The man rolls with the force and Bucky grimaces on his behalf at the bed sores he glimpses on the small of his back. Keeping one arm tucked to his chest, he heaves the guy onto his side, grunting. He doesn’t wake from whatever delirium he’s in, just keeps moaning to himself. Bucky goes to check the sores but his hands are shaking so much he can’t get a firm grip on the shirt to pull it up.

He gives up - he’ll have McNair look.

When he looks a it, the bed - _so far_, he can’t bring himself to commit to the mountain he’ll have to climb to get back on-top either, so he tucks his knees into the side and curls both hands close to his chest between them instead. He breathes into his hands, the puffs to be sure, like he's blowing out candles - no smoke; no fire.

He remembers Dernier’s words and the home-movie imagery that had sprung from it, about blistering insides; hundreds of pockets of pus sealed over with a layer of skin. He thinks about his mother’s iron. Dernier had been right. Whatever had been done to those men had burned right through them - not like a fever but like wildfire racing through the veins - literally burning them alive.

He knows this because they’re doing the same to him.

. . .

McNair wakes him once more from a sleep he doesn’t realize he’s fallen into - looks very drawn and very pale. He’s crouching, shuffling on his feet - there’s no room with four of them in here. “You wi’ me now, Barnes?”

Bucky’s whole body shudders involuntarily; McNair grimaces on his behalf. “Bucky.”

“What?”

“Call me Bucky.”

McNair takes him under the armpits and heaves him up clumsily. Bucky mutters an apology when he inadvertently grabs the guys bruised and bloody elbow and he yelps. “I thought yer name w’s James?”

“’t is.” Bucky slurs, “But everyone calls me Bucky.”

“That’s th’ stupidest thing ah ever heard.” McNair tells him, lowering him back on the cot. Bucky squirms, uncomfortable.

“But it’s my name,” he half-moans.

“Yer names James.” McNair says, like he’s introducing Bucky to himself; who laughs dazedly out loud at the thought. “I’m nae callin’ ye bloody Bucky. ‘N’ if that’s what were daein’ _James,_” he says meaningfully, “then it’s Andrew. Go t’ bed, pal.”

“’Kay,” Bucky mutters.

Three minutes into sleep he realises he's forgotten to tell him to turn the other prisoner over to check the sores there.

. . .

Zola gave back his dog-tags, must have put them back on after. He keeps his promises.

. . .

  
He remembers to tell Andrew about the new-but-old prisoner’s bed sores but when Bucky wakes up the guy’s gone.

“They took him back an ‘our go.” Andrew tells him on the floor at the foot of the bed. He’s scratching at his forearm again, and looks miserable. 

Bucky’s feeling more stable now; can smell food. “Get up here,” he says, “Switch.”

Andrew rolls his eyes at him, but moves and clearly tries and fails not to laugh when Bucky falls off the bed again.

“Shut up.” Bucky snipes; then goes straight for the food. He drains half the bucket of drinking water before he makes himself stop - picks up the mush that is their dinner. He passes Andrew his, kicks the other one at the red-haired prisoner for him to ignore. Andrew shakes his head. “You’re not hungry?” Bucky asks, around a mouthful of questionable meat, “_You?_”

He’s _starving._

Andrew shakes his head, “You have it. A’m feelin’ tae sick.”

Bucky seriously considers it for half-a-moment. “Nah, save it for later - you might be feeling better then. Not like it can go any colder.”

Andrew smiles half-heartedly at him, “Ye’r a good guy James.”

Bucky scrunches his face, “Ugh, who are you, my mother?”

**. . .**

  
Turns out, Bucky’s machine, the ‘iron lung’, is specifically for him - Andrew has another one - specifically for him too. They already knew Zola was giving them different treatments, is using them for different experiments, but it’s this that drives the point truly home.

Andrew’s machine just goes around his head, and latches onto his right jaw to hold him in place while some kind of casing covers the left side of his forehead down to his cheekbone. “It's not th' same as yers, a’ clocked it when they brought me in, when ye w’re free” -- he’s still not over it, even though Bucky’s told him _five times_ he couldn’t move----”It was near yer feet, they must have just wheeled it off. Ye said that one burned, lik' yer insides?” 

Bucky nods. Andrew’s machine shocks him and his brain instead; makes him forget things for a while. Bucky has evidence. The guy’s asked him the same question four times in the last day.

Zola asks them different questions too; to Andrew if he feels angry or calm, or stronger, and can he remember the pictures he showed him earlier? To Bucky he asks him if he’s feeling any better like a very concerned childhood doctor, or if he’s feeling worse and what exact sensations does he feel as he uses the machine at different voltages.

They have a stupid argument they both regret later, about who has it worse.

**. . .**

Their beloved roommate, the one who slurs and never stops making noise even though he can’t speak; whose nothing more than skeletal now, is finally taken the next morning.

Bucky feels bad for feeling relieved, but he can see the tension draining from Andrew’s shoulders too, so he knows he’s not alone.

**. . .**

In the afternoon they bring Bucky back in, collared as usual, and they’re just finishing mopping up blood and wiping the table down for him.

Well that settles that.

It’s a good day - just needles. 

It’s a bad day for Andrew, and Bucky feels guilty for his good luck.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES & REFERENCES:
> 
> VITA-KAMMER - Vita chamber - Zola's own version of Howard Stark's machine. Obviously nowhere near as good.
> 
> AUTHOR NOTE:  
It's really starting to get underway now! Any guesses as to what happens next?
> 
> Please comment below if you've got something to say, I'm all for constructive criticism!


	3. PART 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck up Barnes, he thinks, suck it up. Steve fought pneumonia three times and won. Steve fought Rheumatic and Scarlet Fever and his asthma and bullies every goddamn week and won. So shut up complaining you pathetic lump of meat, don’t let a little cold beat you.
> 
> Be more Steve.
> 
> "We won't let them. We'll get out here, and we'll kill as many as we can when we do. No fuck that, we'll kill them all."
> 
> Andrew squeezes Bucky’s fingers tight, “We’ll kill ‘hem all” he repeats after him, and holds onto to Bucky’s hand for the rest of the night until the guards force them apart in the morning.
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Pre-warning: There is a very very brief mention of Non-Consesual Touching of a Minor in this chapter that won't be revisited (Paragraph 2 Line 1 to Paragraph 4 - only two sentences) so be aware if that's something that's problem or triggering for you - be safe and protect yourself and skip over or turn off if you need to. This has also been added to the Story Tags above.

BUCKY

Bucky dreams of his mother. It’s not what he thought he’d dream about while he’s being tortured, strangely, but he does after all. They’re good dreams, memories he hasn’t thought of in a long time - since he was twelve and ma brought Fred Highmore home for the first time while his father was away at base, and introduced him as a ‘friend.’ He’s sat at his Great Aunt’s piano, his mother sat behind him and she’s guiding his small hands with her own over the keys. There’s sunlight streaming through the window, lighting her up from the side, and her loose morning hair glints honey in the yellow light as it hangs over his shoulder. They’re in their old house and she’s smiling. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t either, listening to the piano keys echoing around them. Bucky thinks it’s Debussy, his ma loves Debussy the best.

Then his mother’s hands become larger and wrinkled and then warm, brandy-scented breath tickles at his ear and it’s Mr Sullivan, St Augustine’s organ player, behind him in his mothers place. 

“That’s it James, C minus next and then the tenors switch…nice and smoothly, nice and smooth…” the voice swells and fades and Mr Sullivan’s hand moves and his father’s yelling and ripping him from the stool, tells him to run home - “now James_, go home now_” and he’s falling through the floorboards and it’s dark and it’s cold.

He can’t see his pa.

He wakes and he’s staring at a monster. It’s not Zola.

Zola is small with a weasel face and he’s terrifying when he’s holding a scalpel or a needle but he’s not a monster in the physical sense. What he’s looking at right now is, like one of those mutated demons in the horror comics his cousin stole from his other cousin that they flicked through when they were far too young. 

It’s the other prisoner, the one whose been in the lab and stayed in the lab nearly this entire time, strapped to the same table he always is, staring at nothing, but he’s heaving in huge grizzly breaths. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot; irises cloudy and blind, shallow in their sunken sockets. His face is slightly skull like from malnutrition, his head bald from stress, but also swollen up as though he’s drowned and swallowed water until his cheeks puffed up. He’s purple, his fingers black; the flesh dead, and veins stand out on skin stretched over tense muscle. The man, skinny and skeletal as he’d been before is gone, instead something three times his size - built purely from grotesque muscle is in his place.

_Holy Mary, Mother of God,_   
_pray for us sinners,_   
_now and at the hour of our death._

This is hell, it has to be. There’s no way this is real life. He’s read the scripture, knows the stories of damnation as much as he knows Noah’s Ark and David and Goliath and this must be it. It must be hell or some_ awful_ figment of his imagination - he’s seen Steve, Becca and his pa stood over him before, blurry and watching him sadly; could have sworn he’d woken up before to his ma’s laugh and Lily and Jenna banging on his chest playing ‘nurses and doctors’ on top of him, so its not so out of the picture for it to be. 

He blinks and blinks until his eyes water, waiting for the hallucination to disappear. It doesn’t. He lies awake, unable to move his head, the usual spot on his neck throbbing, and stares at the thing that used to be a real person as the sunset turns to dusk outside. He lies in silence for hours, staring, the only sound the awful heaving breaths and the drip drip of a leaky pipe.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Zola says, strolling into the room, and turns his head from the sight until it lolls forward. Zola takes his chin, observing his eyes and slack mouth. “Or as close as you can be.” 

He does some other checks, injects him with “A steroid, solider, I have a feeling you’ll need it” and completely ignores the blind monster three feet away. “Throw him back with the other one - with any luck they’ll keep each other alive and useful.”

.

He’s back in his cell.

He doesn’t remember them undoing the straps or dragging him or opening the door but he’s back in the cell, lying on his side in a ball. Andrew’s moved a whole foot since Bucky saw him last at what he thinks must have been lunch time for regular people, sat up where he was lying down before. He doesn’t get up to offer Bucky the cot as he usually does when Bucky returns to their little hovel, or the other way round, just stays sat with his knees curled up to his chest, scratching at his arms. It’s the most quiet Bucky’s ever heard him in a single sitting before. He swallows, coughs wetly into his hand and rubs at his achy swollen neck - Andrew had spent the morning session in the lab; Bucky the afternoon and evening.

“Did….you….Did you see it---him?” He asks quietly, voice slurring slightly on the vowels.

Andrew doesn’t answer; doesn’t look up at him even for a moment. Bucky goes to close his eyes, tries to let the noise of the leaky tap lull him to sleep as he feels his head start to ache. 

“Aye, a’ saw it.” Andrew says numbly, eventually, eyes and body still deathly still. Bucky opens his eyes fully, heaves his aching tense body from the corner and pads the five feet to the cot. He sinks down next to where Andrew’s got his knees curled up against his chest, slumping against the wall. The mattress groans beneath his weight. He takes Andrew’s hand silently. The solider - _his friend?_ \- squeezes it. “I'm so’ scared, Barnes” he whispers, like it’s a secret. Like Bucky isn’t as scared as him every goddamn second of every goddamn day. “I dinnae’ want that tae happen tae me.”

His tired brain says, _We can’t stop it. If that's what he wants to do to us, that’s what he’ll do. We can’t do anything to stop it._ The other part of him, the part of him that’s part-his-pa, part-Steve and part his training officer from Wisconsin opens his mouth and says, “We won’t let him.”

Andrew scoffs wetly, “What happened tae th' 'no-way-out-unless-you-wanna-top-yourself?”

That's a fair point, how is he supposed to come back from that freely admitted sentence? _Screw that_, another part of him says from within.

_Buck up Barnes_, he thinks, _suck it up. Steve fought pneumonia three times and won. Steve fought Rheumatic and Scarlet Fever and his asthma and bullies every goddamn week and won. So shut up complaining you pathetic lump of meat, don’t let a little cold beat you._

_Don’t let a fat little quack bully you down. Be more Steve. Everyone can do with being more Steve._

Bucky gives it a full minute before he answers, “my pal back home - he’s small but he’s a right little punk, would start fights with every neighbourhood thug if he thought it would make a difference. He’d lose every one of those fights -- _He’s brave but I never said he was smart,_” he adds when Andrew looks up at him. “He doesn’t like bullies, see? Doesn’t matter how big they are. ‘Cause of him I’ve fought nearly every boy our age and half the older ones too - and I used to be a boxer, but most of my matches were in back alleys. His ma used to go spare every time he came home with a black eye or some shit, kept asking him why he kept starting fights he knows he won’t win. He says to her once while I was there - holding a hanky to my nose, mind you - simple, ‘that if no-one stands up to them they’ll be bullies forever’, so it might as well be him. She asks ‘im, ‘aren’t you scared of being hurt worse, and what about your asthma?”

“What di’ he say?”

Bucky grins toothily at the memory, “The little shit, without even pausing says back ‘Of course I’m scared, but if I run away when I’m scared I’ll be running forever. They'll never let you stop. The best thing when you're scared is to pretend not to be, even when you're shaking, pretend to be brave and maybe the bullies will think twice next time; I can pretend if I need to’. And this guy, let me tell you, is the worse goddamn liar on the planet, but he was right, some of them boys did think twice….and Zola’s a bully. A different kind of bully than I’m used to but still a bully. So we don’t let them beat us--we need to teach them a lesson.”

“And how would we dae that?”

“We kill ‘em.” Bucky replies immediately, staring at the wall - he forces his voice to be strong. “Fuck it, we kill them all. As many as we can.”

Andrew’s head shoots to look at his profile, face disbelieving. “Are ye serious?”

Bucky turns to look at him, makes sure he does it square in the eye when he does - “My pals the good Catholic boy outta' the two of us, not me. Doesn’t sound it but he is. I’m the half breed gypsy rat, and I don’t like bullies either.” He bites his lip, “What do you say we get outta here?”

Andrew blinks, stares at the same wall Bucky was, a small smirk growing on his face. “I said I wasn't going tae die 'ere, r’member? So aye, we can be lik' yer friend, 'n' bugger th' rest o' them. We'll get out o' 'ere, 'n' we take' down as many as we can when we do.”

He squeezes Bucky’s hand tight.

“We’ll kill them all.” he repeats, a vow if Bucky ever heard one, and holds onto to Bucky’s hand for the rest of the night. The guards force them apart in the morning.

. . .

  
They talk about nonsensical things to pass the time in-between - Andrew’s family in a town called Paisely and Bucky’s in Brooklyn, animals and pets, and what they did before the war. They argue about the difference between chips and fries, and whether it’s ‘dinner’ or ‘teatime’ and the proper amount of time to dunk a biscuit in tea. Andrew pulls a face as Bucky explains the combination of fried chicken and waffles and he does the same when Andrew starts talking about haggis.

Steve used to say Bucky could never goddamn shut up, even for a minute, always moving or making some kind of sound if he wasn’t already blabbing his lips apart. He has nothing on Andrew; who can talk the ear off a donkey, stitch it back on and talk until the thing fell off again. The guy deserves a goddamn gold medal for it if you ask Bucky, who’s infinitely grateful for Andrew’s cursing and his yabbering - keeping Bucky from sinking into the cold lonely silences he falls into when he’s alone. He keeps the cell feeling alive with his yapping and Bucky’s tapping fingers, instead of letting it turn into a silent mausoleum. 

They keep each other sane.

Vague plans form, some bloodier and some utterly ridiculous until they’re both either riled up and ready to act or laughing hysterically into each other until they can’t breathe. Nothing concrete, and nothing that actually really stands a chance of working - but it’s somewhat entertaining to think of smuggling out a letter to Bugs Bunny and watching the guy rain havoc on the Nazis with carrots and underground burrows.

Bucky gets the yellow serum, Andrew the green. It’s a life, not a great life; an awful life if he’s honest, but a life nonetheless. One they keep on surviving together.

Bucky comes down with a few more things following the pneumonia, feels like spitting in Zola’s face and going_ ‘ha, you’re failing motherfucker,’_ but nothing that really sticks other than making him a little more miserable for a few days - and he’s got Zola for that already.

Andrew tells him it’s probably the dank cell, “Bleedin' Christ, who knows what's crawling up th' walls 'n' getting us tae breathe them in in 'ere, like some mutated fuckin' germs, mutated like that dead fella.” 

(They keep trying to joke about it to lighten the mood. It’s never funny; especially when they come into the next sessions to see him sliced and diced as Zola pulls his now dead body apart piece by piece.)

“Ah mean, we shit in a bucket two feet from where we kip, Barnes, 'n' piss down th' drain next tae it - 'n' I know I've missed a time o' two in th' dark, so ah dinnae even wanna fuckin' think about you.”

“Fuck off Andrew, I’ve got great aim.” Bucky shoots back, massaging his temples.

“Like arse ye do.”

“Better than you, motherfucker. I’ve got sniper training to back me up, what have you got, a line of girls in therapy for all the times you missed and got ‘em in the eye instead.” 

Andrew sprays his gulp of water clear across the room, laughing. “Shooting a gun stra’ght doesn't mean ye kin piss stra’ght, James.”

“Fucking watch me McNair, I’ll get you in the eye and then you’ll know how all those poor gals back home feel.”

. . .

Andrew seems to be getting stronger where Bucky’s getting sicker. He tells Bucky they let him off the table sometimes, lock him in another room filled with stuff he thinks he’s supposed to break or some shit. “I ain’t a prized bull in a fuckin’ china shop, James,” and instead sneaks out a jagged piece of metal and tries to stab Zola in the eye with it. He doesn’t get far, the guards shock him until he’s on his stomach and has bitten his tongue bloody and he ends up back on the table anyway. Zola keeps asking, he says, if the shots feel hot or cold, if he feels angry or energized or stronger after.

Andrew starts chatting absolute shit, military protocol be damned, spouting off old wives tales about Scottish giants walking across the sea and raising them as facts. _He’s so brave_, Bucky thinks sometimes, _he’s taken Steve’s catchphrase to heart like he hadn’t expected him to and put his own stamp to it._ Trying to stick to the same conviction they make it a game; a General of some kind stands in to observe Zola’s work and barks at him. “Wo ist die nächstgelegene alliierte Basis? Was sind Schwächen?” (Where’s the closest Allied base? What is it’s weaknesses?”)

Bucky bites out, “Tom fucking Sawyer, 32557038” and “have you met my dog Toto? He’s probably with the munchkins, the rest of his people -” he nods at Zola, who,_ damn looks pissed as hell_ \- “down the yellow brick road. Just follow the yellow brick road and you’ll find him and he can bite your balls off and shit them back out agai----”

Someone backhands him so hard his vision blacks out for a moment and he’s pretty sure he might have just fractured his jaw, but later he hears a guard muttering in confused German about ‘yellow brick roads’ until another smacks him over the head with what he’s pretty sure is “It’s a movie, you imbecile.”

Andrew just about shits himself when Bucky tells him, vows to one up him.

The day that Andrew manages to bend iron barns he absolutely should not be able to, they start planning again. Andrew thinks, “If ah can bend them bars, ah can get out o' those leather straps. Get off that table.” 

Bucky tells him not to be an idiot, the space of time between when he’s put on the table and when Zola starts his drug cocktails is too short and he’s at a disadvantage there.

“We’re always at a disadvantage.” He argues back.

“You’re stronger now, but your_ strongest_ after he’s given you the green stuff--”

“Unless he puts me in th' machine - th' other one, nor th' one he uses on you.” He hates the second machine, has made his opinion known loudly and often. Bucky hasn’t seen it properly yet, but he knows Andrew hates it, so that’s enough for him.

Bucky hums, “What about when they don’t? When they take you to that other room, that's after the shots, isn’t it? When it’s kicking in?”

“Just ‘bout.” Andrew answers.

“Then that’s the best chance, before they lock you in --if you can bend a iron beam and smash bricks with your bare hand you can snap a coupla’ necks.” 

“What about ye though? What about when they open th' cell door?” 

“Haven’t you listened to a thing I just goddamn said, you’re strongest _after the shots_; I’ve seen you.”

“After then. When they're takin’ me back tae swap us over.”

Bucky looks away, “There’s more of them around then, when they know there’s two of us and…and they sometimes shoot me with some kinda’ dart or something before they bring you back in.”

Andrew blanches.

“Th' hell ye goin’ on about?”

Bucky pauses a moment before giving up and telling him, “When you’ve been too much work getting onto the table or ‘cause they’re just feeling lazy, they come before they bring you back and shoot me through the food slot with something that makes me dizzy…I don’t even remember us swapping or them strapping me down half the time.”

Andrew punches the wall. Unfortunately, it’s reinforced concrete so it just crumbles a little, leaves a bloody mark on the wall, a small dent and dust on the floor.

“Are ye joking? How come ye didnae tell me?”

“It didn’t seem important until now,” Bucky defends, excuse sounding weak even to him, “And if it makes you feel any better I think most of the time they’re also doing it to see how quickly it wears off.”

“It doesn't mak' me feel any better, ye git, is that how come ye look outta yer mind so much when they throw me back in? Ah thought that was th' fever making ye dizzy.”

“I haven’t had a fever in days.” Bucky informs him solemnly, and gets right back to it. “Anyway, that’s not the point. There’s too many of them then; when they take you to the other room is the best time.”

“I will say it again, what about ye? We're getting out together.”

Bucky doesn’t want to be left here in any shape or form but Andrew is the only advantage and only chance they have. ”Do you know the way? From the lab to the other room?”

“Aye, I ‘hink so.”

“And the lab to this cell?”

“Obviously Barnes, we've done th' trip enough times.” 

Bucky nods, tells him: “Achter has the keys; the one with the purple patch on his arm. Wagner has the second set - he’s the idiot who walked into a door and cracked his goggles---”

“I’ know who ye'r on about.” Andrew cuts in, “They have th' keys, ye'r sure?”

“I’m sure” Bucky confirms, “I’ve been watching them to figure it out when I can and it’s always the same two that open the door and it’s always the big one - I don’t know ‘is name - who comes in first. He carries a grenade on his belt. That could help. The rest of them just have guns and---”

“And the batons.” Andrew says, starting to grin.

Bucky says, “Do you think you can get the keys and make it back here - quickly, before they raise the alarm?”

“I can bend iron six inches thick, Jimmy, a'm sure ah kin manage a light jog.”

“You’re such as ass.” Bucky tells him.

“We’ll need a weapon.” Andrew finally says, looking thoughtful, “You too, just in case, something ye can have in 'ere.”

“We’re prisoners, no weapons is kinda the point, Andy.” When he devolved to calling him ‘Andy’ without it being a thing he doesn’t know.

“Unless,” he ponders, goes onto his knees and then onto his back, sliding under the cot before starting to work at something in the corner.

“What are you---”

Andrew yanks hard at the bed frame and Bucky hears something snap before Andrew rolls out from under the cot holding a dulled shard of the metal bracing. He snaps it in two with no difficulty until they’re just bigger than his hand, and pulls out two mattress springs.

“And our bed was uncomfortable enough already, thanks” Bucky deadpans.

“Shut up.” Andrew fires back as usual. “We can hide it where ah just pulled it from, that way they cannae see it an' we can sharpen it at night. When th' time comes -- make sure ye enjoy sticking ‘em with it -- just dinnae stick me.”

“This is it then?” Buck says, finally. “We’re really doing it?”

“We're daein' it Jimmy, 'n' we're not stopping 'til we're out.”

. . .

  
They plan it for the next week, when they know from eavesdropping that there’ll be no visiting officers or extra security, giving them time to sharpen the bed poles until they’re _wicked sharp._ Switching so one of them is working at it while the other keeps watch on the door, as usual, they talk. About everything and nothing. Girls, famous and non-famous; the gorgeous dames in their neighbourhoods become the topic one night while Bucky’s sawing at the side of the metal drain grate with the pole.

“You’ve bin wi' a lass, haven't ye Jimmy?"

“Yeah, why?” Bucky asks, grunting, “Thought you had too.”

“Cours’ I fuckin’ have,” Andrew scoffs and Bucky grins at the familiar back and forth, used to the topic from the front lines. All the green-boys at the trenches wanted to talk about was their dames back home. “You git a hen?”

“A what?”

“A lass, Barnes, Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, like a sweetheart? Nah, not properly. Not for a while anyway. Never really had the time these last few years-” Couldn’t even think about girls right after pa died, and then next thing he knew was shipping off to Jersey and then Wisconsin and then Europe. “You?”

“Maybe.”

Bucky laughs, “How can you ‘maybe’ have a sweetheart?”

“Well I had someone but we ne'er made any promises tae each other or anythin'. Dinnae think she wanted tae get too attached in case I smoked it.”

“Smart girl.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“What’s ‘er name?”

“Why should ah tell ye, ye won’ tell me yer pal’s name.”

“My pals not my sweetheart."

“Neither is Ailsa.”

“Then what you tellin’ me for?” Bucky stops sawing to snap. Andrew doesn’t say a word so Bucky goes back to it.

Then Andrew says, “Because we dinnae make any promises ta’ each other.”

The sawing stops, Bucky pauses; freezes, almost. After a moment he starts up again.

Later when the moons gone past their tiny high window and shrouded them in darkness, they sit on the bed together. They’ve stopped sawing for the night, it’s time to get what little shut-eye they can; considering they’ve got to stay capable enough to run and fight if they want to make it out of the building. They can’t see one another, but Andrew takes his hand like Bucky did to him before, turns his head and kisses him slow and soft.

It’s not desperate or sexual, two guys beating one out, jack-hammering like rabbits for one last fix - _it’s nice_.

It’s a kiss of affection and companionship, and Bucky doesn’t care about the sin of it when it’s such a relief. He lets the tension go out of his shoulders, reaches his other hand up to cup Andrew’s jaw. They part, as soft and slow as they started and stay close to each other, ignoring their own breath and stink for the moment.

They linger, Bucky’s hand on Andrew’s bearded jaw - _Andy Andy _\- and kiss again. They peck once more after that, and then lower themselves down onto the narrow bed facing each other, slotted together like jigsaw pieces.

They sleep.

. . .

The guards pull their hands apart again the next morning, and the morning after that. And the morning after that; in every moment of waking when their together.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well things are definitely picking up, so we might even check in and see how Steve's getting on in those tights of his in the next chapter. Just so you know, there will be weekly updates of this fic - and am trying to make sure I stay up to date outside of work commitments.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think, and thank you very much RoisinDubhCosplay for my very first comment :)
> 
> .
> 
> RELIGIOUS REFERENCES:  
Beginning of the Hail Mary Prayer - Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
> 
> There's also mentions of Noah's Arc (every animal two-by-two) and David and Goliath (first ever Underdog comes out on top story as a ridiculously basic explanation) which I've imagine you've otherwise heard of before.


	4. PART 4 (a)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We can get lost in there, he thinks when it gets too much, when we make it past the fence we can get lost in the forest like Hansel and Gretel and they’ll never find us.
> 
> He dreams of himself and Andrew, running with their hands clasped together through the corridors and the brickwork, through a door and out into the open air he hasn’t appreciated since their last summer trip back to Indiana when he was twelve. Lily and Jenna are too young to remember any of them.
> 
> He dreams of touching the trees and feeling the sunlight on his face.

  
STEVE

Steve has a lot of opinions.

This is something about himself he's very aware of. _However_; he does pride himself on the fact that all of his opinions are important opinions about important subjects and events. Not like Bucky, who also has a lot of opinions, but has opinions on subjects that no-one should have such unconscionable opinions on, let alone even be thinking about; like salami and prime numbers. Steve remembers him telling him once, when he was eleven or twelve, right after the Barnes’ had to move to Steve’s church because it was closer to the tenement building they now shared - to watch out for organ players. To this day, he’s never given him an explanation other than “organ players aren’t nice in the same way pianists like me are, Steve, you need to remember that.”

His friend, when he wasn't waxing wise about Steve keeping out of trouble, could be awful strange sometimes.

No, Steve had important opinions about important things. He had opinions about God and where and what exactly should be a sin, and behaved appropriately. He had opinions about segregation and negroes and opinions about what ‘true Americans’ said about immigrants like his ma, Irish or otherwise. He had important opinions about the war and taxes and socialism - god forbid he’d driven his poor mother up the wall in 36' when he’d gotten hold of a SWP flyer from a rally he wasn’t supposed to be at. He had opinions about how dames should be treated, and whether or not they should or shouldn’t be allowed to work once they were married.

No, he had a lot of opinions, especially about the war and Hitler and what he was doing to the Jews; the poor Jews. The news had broken in this morning’s early paper - there had been rumours about it,_ boy had there been rumours_, about the secret police and the ghettos but nothing had been concrete until this morning.

And Steve knows not to believe everything in the papers and the press - hell, he practically is part of the press now, but _he believes it_. He knows it’s true, as sickening as the idea is. He knew something like this was building; has been for years, since long before the first declaration of war was made - and long before the US decided to get involved. He's been saying it loud and unbridled with clear frustrated aggravation to people when didn't listen to him, or in quiet worried murmurs of conversation with friends and academic artists often enough, but he didn’t expect this.

Of all those innocent people; fathers, mothers and children in Poland and Czechoslovakia; all over Europe being rounded up and kept in pens like animals. Being starved and shot on a whim whenever the Nazi’s feel like it - all because of their blood, because of their religion.

It’s always about religion.

In one sense or another, from the Crusades to the Irish Rebellion to the Thirty Years War to ever-changing Monarchies; it’s always religion. Religion and purity.

It’s those words, _‘the unpure’_, in the ‘rounding up the unpure to build a new Aryan race’ quote that does him in. That’s what they used to say sometimes about his Irish mama, and his friend from the SWP Joseph Momoa ’s dark skin and wide nose; and sometimes Bucky’s family on account of his mother's Romani heritage. It makes him _furious_ because he’s hit (or tried to hit) every single person whose ever said shit about his ma or the Barnes’, to his face or behind his back, but he can’t hit Hitler. Not the real Hitler, and it’s not fair on Lewis if he actually does deck him in the middle of a show on account of the fake moustache he’s wearing. He can’t punch Hitler and he can’t punch the Nazi’s, because he’s stuck here - wearing tights and dancing like a glorified show pony.

“Steve, honey, please calm down.” Josie says.

“How can you ask me to do that? Have you seen this?” He shakes the newspaper at her, pacing back and forth. His knuckles are clenched so tightly he’s crinkling the paper and the words printed there. 

“Of course I have, we all have.” Josie returns, clearly trying to keep her calm through Steve’s agitation. She’s stood to his right, hands on her hips, half-dressed for their morning rehearsal. The rest of the girls are either watching him or whispering to each other, heads buried in the articles as well. No one’s doing their hair or their makeup. 

He’s in Ohio.

“And it’s awful Steve. It’s awful I know, but getting this riled up isn’t going to help--”

“Like hell it isn’t!” Steve almost snarls back without meaning too, then takes a step back, affronted by his own behaviour. His nerves have been taunt all week, he doesn’t know why - feels like someone’s cut open his stomach and stapled it back together again.

“Steven Rodgers!” Josie shouts, voice sharp. All the girls go quiet; Steve does too. He opens his mouth to apologize but before he can she huffs, kicks off her heels and grabs him by the arm, tugging him bodily until they’re behind a curtain. Steve follows obediently.

He likes Josie, probably one of the best out of all the USO girls. She beautiful and talented and as smart as a whip, like Agent Carter, but she hides it behind her lipstick and her perfect curls so no-one really knows it. She hides her temper behind that too, and Steve can understand that one a little more than the other at least. Like the other girls she’d_ ooh’d_ and _ahhh’d_ a little over him the first time they met in San Francisco, but unlike the others had backed off quickly when she realized he was getting uncomfortable. She still flirts, but it’s so brazen and sly that Steve knows not to take it seriously, and she likes to rile him up for fun. After four mouths he’s learnt that’s just her way; she does the same with half the girls too, and it’s surprisingly refreshing. She always has a comeback on the tip of her tongue, and she’s _funny_. 

She called him a _boring toerag_ on her birthday when he wouldn’t dance with her, took his whisky from his hand, drank it in two gulps, and spent the rest of the night dancing as provocatively as she could get away with against Veronica in full view of him, smirking and laughing at him all the while.

She reminds him a little of Bucky, and he wonders if that’s why he likes her so much; a piece of home while he’s far from it. She’s also not afraid to yell at him, God bless her mother for teaching her not to take any man’s shit. 

“You listen to me Steven Rodgers,” she says, when they’re as alone as they can be, “what is in that paper is awful. No one’s denying that. It’s _awful and sick_ and it scares me to think they might do that to us too. It scares me and it makes me angry---” 

Steve opens his mouth. She cuts him off before he can speak. “---You think I’m not angry? You think all those girls in there aren’t angry? You think some of us didn’t walk into the nearest government building, like you boys did enlistment centres after Pearl Harbour and after our sweethearts and our brothers shipped out? You think we didn’t apply to help out any way we could, overseas or at home or even asking to be trained up in goddamn espionage or a code-breaking so we could make a real difference? You think we all didn’t get turned away because ‘you got good legs sweetheart, but not the stamina for that kind of work, or the shorthand skills needed for the other kind’, just like you did? No, _you didn’t!_” She half shouts the last part, all in one breath, then takes a moment to breathe.

“Josaphin---”

“I’m not done!” She holds up a hand. “I don’t know why they didn’t take you when you obviously want to go, especially when you,” she gestures to all of him, “look like this.”

\----Steve looks down, unable to tell her; unable to tell anyone about Project Rebirth-----

“But the fact of the matter is Steve, they didn’t, for whatever reason, and have you doing this instead the same way they have us girls. We can’t type shorthand but we can ‘can-can’ to the high heavens, and it helps. It helps the war, helps our side and our brothers and our sweethearts, in whatever small way - _it does_. And that has to be enough.”

Steve looks back up, but still down, at her. “What if it’s not?”

“If it’s not,” she sighs, “then it’s not Steve, and I can’t change that for you. But getting angry and worked up - with good reason - but not being able to box it back up isn’t helping anyone - especially not you. It doesn’t change where you are and what you’re doing - it just makes you feel worse.”

_And what if I can't shove it down?_ He wants to ask, but doesn't think she'll be able to come up with an answer he'll accept.

Steve laughs, surprised at how broken he sounds, “I’ll warn you now I’ve never been all that good at keeping a lid on it, or my fists to myself.”

“Oh Steve,” Josie says, patting his cheek. “ I could tell that the moment I met you. We’re cut from the same cloth, you and me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. So it’s a good thing I’m here,” she pulls one of the rollers from her hair with a flourish. Curls bounce in rings around her chin perfectly. She turns, pulls the curtain open and spins to look back at him. He’s still upset, and a little embarrassed now, but his fight-or-flight response has cooled off. He wonders what it’s like to know yourself so well that you can see so deeply into others. “Stick with me, I’ll find you your little red box. Remember what we just talked about!” She adds faux-threateningly at last before twirling again to begin pulling out her other hair rollers, and humming to herself in the mirror. 

Steve sighs, pushes his temper back down as much as he can and gets dressed. He dances and showboats and punches Hitler like he does every single night to the cheers of mothers and children. Josie smiles at him mid-kick, lipstick bright red like her hair. He pastes a smile on his face and pretends not to feel like he’s dying, worse now than it was when he was too sick to fight for his country.

He tries not to think about how they’re rounding up Romani and gypsy people in those camps too.

_I hope your safe, Buck. I hope to God your safe._

_. . ._

  
BUCKY

  
Bucky doesn’t dream about his mother anymore, or Mr Sullivan or even his pop. Occasionally he see’s Steve or his sister Becca, throwing something at him and telling him to get out of bed. Mostly he dreams about the grass he saw that first time he came to Zola’s lab through the window, and the trees tall and maze-like past the fence. _We can get lost in there,_ he thinks when it gets too much, _when we make it past the fence we can get lost in the forest like Hansel and Gretel and they’ll never find us._

He dreams of himself and Andrew, running with their hands clasped together through the corridors and the brickwork, through a door and out into the _real _open air he hasn’t really appreciated since their last summer trip back to Indiana when he was twelve. Lily and Jenna are too young to remember any of them.

He dreams of touching the trees and feeling the sunlight on his face.

Sometimes they kill the guards and Zola in his dream as they go, his subconscious thinking that maybe the part of his brain that is angry, that is _furious_ with what's been done to them will be satisfied but he finds out it’s not. In real life, yes - but this isn’t real life, and he just wants to get away and be safe in his dreams.

. . .

Andrew keeps getting stronger, Bucky stops getting sicker. His shiv is very sharp now.

. . .

Andrew’s getting desperate; he keeps talking about moving up the plan days in advance even when they both know it’s not safe. There’s visiting SS officers again, different ones to before, but these ones are only passing through; a flying inspection. They’ll be gone either tomorrow or the next day. Andrew doesn’t care. He wants to go now.

Bucky hates having to say no to him. The truth is, he’s not sick anymore; he can fight. It’s not all on Andrew any longer and he wants out of here too - still hot and flustered after being in the iron lung earlier, but it’s not time. It’s not the plan.

“I dinnae care ‘bout th’ plan!”

“Too bad, shithead, we’re sticking to it now_ shut up_ or they’ll hear us.”

“We can go - we can go tomorr’a, in th’ mornin’ when they open th’ cell-”

Bucky shakes his head; they’ve been over this. The best chance is if Andrew takes the opportunity when they transfer him, when he’s hopped up and wild on adrenaline and the green serum. When he’s strongest - not when they’re still sleep deprived, and when there’s more security waiting in the lab then there usually is.

The problem is, Andrew will do it. He’ll do it Bucky knows, because he has no restraint or self-preservation when he’s angry and scared, and he’s _desperate._ He doesn’t want to go back in the other machine Zola uses just on him, and not on Bucky. There’s bruises along his cheekbone and the left side of his forehead from where the casing restraints sit, and his body is still jittery from the shocks, hours later.

“We have to wait. McNair----_Andrew_. Please. _Please_, just trust me. We need to wait, stick to the plan. It’s just a couple more days.”

. . .

They shouldn’t have waited. He should have listened to Andrew and gone when he said he was going to, should have stabbed the guards in the neck and gone for it anyway.

They shouldn’t have waited.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the next small instalment, sorry if it was a little shorter than you were hoping. If you can't tell; we're gearing up for some action in the future, so thought it's be fun to stop in and check on poor old Steve for a moment. We wouldn't want to forget about him.
> 
> To keep you going though, here's a little promo. NEXT TIME ON MAN THE GUNS, THE HOWLERS ARE COMING:
> 
> This time they take off his boots and his soiled socks, and he thinks well, at least this is new.
> 
> They strap his forehead down and so he stares at the ceiling as Zola readies his experiments.
> 
> “Barnes. Sergeant, 3255-” he starts reciting, not caring whether it’s one of those days or not. Stay strong, two more days and we go. Two more days. We’ll make it out. We can - you saw what Andrew can do. They’ll make it. Two more days. You can last two more days.
> 
> “Today we will be observing something different Sergeant,” Zola continues, “Like most things it will probably be above your understanding so I will try to, what do you American’s say, dumb it down.”
> 
> Zola's wet clammy touch brings him back to focus, thumb pressing against the arch of his foot. Used to the cold touch of sharp metal, Bucky knows there’s a scalpel there.


	5. PART 4 (b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky had always rather liked the stories and the art over the holy scripture teaching you to live without sin. He supposed in a wrathful God-sense that this was why he had ended up here and not some good Catholic boy.

BUCKY

Sometimes they leave the transportation collar on; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they strap his forehead down to bring in the ‘iron lung’, as Bucky’s dubbed it; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes Zola works on him and then leaves him strapped down while he scribbles on his blackboard for hours; sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes they bring both him and Andrew out at the same time; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes it’s just needles and screaming as his insides shrivel with icy cold; sometimes it’s not. Sometimes they ask him questions and burn him when he doesn’t answer; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they burn him when he does; sometimes they don’t.

This time.

This time they take off his boots and his soiled socks, and he thinks _well, at least this is new._

They strap his forehead down, and so he stares at the ceiling as Zola readies his experiments.

“Barnes. Sergeant, 3255-” he starts reciting, not caring whether it’s one of those days or not. _Stay strong, two more days and we go. Two more days. We’ll make it out. We can - you saw what Andrew can do. They’ll make it. Two more days. You can last two more days._

“I’m not interested in that today Sergeant,” Zola cuts him off, “my supervisors are not here to observe or are expecting results of such kind - so no need to waste either of our time.”

“Barnes. Sergeant 32557038.”

Zola laughs, amused, “From my count you were Moby-Dick yesterday and Huckleberry Finn the day before. Or have we reverted back to yourself; out of imagination and classic literary figures?”

Bucky bites his lip on a ‘Sergeant’, some old sense of arrogant backchat coming out in a wave of bravery. “Who says I’m pretending, you Nazi asswipe? Maybe I’m Jesus, and my daddy’s gonna smite you with holy lighting - see how you like being Lucifer’s bed fellow then - that’s where your going. I’ve heard he’s all red and scaled, bald and skull like-” Inexplicably Zola’s amusement fades and something sour and extremely uncomfortable comes across his face, as though Bucky’s struck a nerve he doesn’t know about. Emboldened, he continues, voice savage. “Claws at your back and eats your stubby little fingers, throws you into the burning furnace alive and awake, where there will be a weeping and a gnashing of teeth.” He starts reciting. He doesn’t need to swear or blasphemise as Andrew does for this, he'll bring him down with holy conviction like the nuns used to do every Sunday.

“But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers -_ the fat pug-faced little doctors like you_ \- the sexually immoral, those who practice wicked arts - look you again, the idolaters and the liars; they’ll be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death. It’ll be your third and your fourth and your _fifth_ cause he’s not giving you up, the Devil, you’ll be his forever and al----”

“That is enough,” Zola snaps, “We have a schedule to keep to.”

“Fuck your goddamn schedule,” Bucky snaps right back, immediately forgetting his vow not to curse and take the Lord’s name in vain; nobody said he was a particularly good Catholic._ Has all the words but none of the patience to follow through,_ Father Matthews always used to say. They let him play the piano during service once or twice a year but the Barnes’ standing with the church had never been all that high. He supposed that happened when the woman of the house regularly missed Sunday services, wore red, and swore unreservedly in front of the nuns. In all honestly his pa had never particularly held her back either, her ‘spunk’ one of the things he’d loved the most about her, which probably hadn’t helped their reputation. It had never really changed when they moved to St Ann’s near Steve, all of them too set in their ways, though Steve’s constant questioning, contradictions and _opinions_ diverted much of the unhappy attention to him. Steve had always had an ever-changing and stubborn relationship with God, finally settling in his twenties, where he believed wholeheartedly in some scripture and blatantly ignored the rest that didn’t agree with his stubborn perception of the world. 

Bucky had always rather liked the stories and the art over the holy scripture teaching you to live without sin. He supposed in a wrathful God-sense that this was why he had ended up here and not some good Catholic boy.

“Today we will be observing something different Sergeant,” Zola continues, “Like most things it will probably be above your understanding so I will try to, what do you American’s say, _dumb it down_.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Bucky snaps back, now absolutely forgetting the usual military protocol, still feeling affronted every-time Zola calls him stupid or dim. He was halfway through his 2nd year classes in engineering and architecture at the Brooklyn Pratt Institute for fucks sakes, _so take that you Nazi fuck. When your speaking and writing in English I’ve understood far more of your shitty mechanical research than you realize. I know your ‘iron lung machine consists of coupling separate laser beams to generate single coherent beams on each side of the casing and you’re amplifying it by using the electrical fields. I know you’ve had to reinforce said casing with lead and steel to stop your contraption from conducting too much electricity and short circuiting the whole building. I know more than you know_. He can see and has worked out how that machine runs and is slotted together, even if he doesn’t know exactly what it does apart from make his blood boil and fry up like an egg yoke.

“You’re immune system and new resistance to illness is well documented by now - you overcame the Syphilis and the Scarlet Fever with surprising speed.”

\----_wait what? What? When did he have---? The little-----oh god he gave him syphilis, he gave him syphilis-_\--

“---you see? So we are moving onto the next stage - physical regeneration.”

Head still spinning with the knowledge that the doctor had literally and intentionally infected him with syphilis and Scarlet Fever just to see if he would or wouldn’t die, he misses Zola moving down to his feet. His wet clammy touch brings him back to focus, thumb pressing against the arch of his foot. Used to the cold touch of sharp metal, Bucky knows there’s a scalpel there.

Oh God. _Oh God_.

He starts cutting.

“Did you know the soles of the feet are one of the most painful areas in a mans body, lots of nerves all in one place you see-”

Bucky keeps trying to buck against the straps. He can’t get away; he can’t get away. His feet his feet - _they’re mutilating my feet_. Zola keeps slicing and slicing and slicing and Bucky can’t breathe, keening out long hurt sounds he can’t hear over his own panic. His mouth's moving and there's sound but not anything he can distinguish. Zola moves to his other foot.  
  
_\----No._

He manages to jerk the ankle free, not far, but enough that Zola loses his position. The problem is - he jerks inwards instead of away and the scalpel stabs deep into Bucky's right heel. 

He howls.

“Stop stop _stop stop-_”

“Oh for Gods- that was unnecessary Sergeant.” The doctor yanks it out, and the sound Bucky now hears himself make lets him know he has no dignity left. Drug him. Drug him, _please just drug him,_ he begs inwardly_. I can’t - please, please drug me - why haven’t you drugged me like usual?_

“That would defeat the purpose solider,” Zola explains promptly, and pours rubbing alcohol indiscriminately over his bloody feet. Bucky can’t even scream any more, his mouth so dry and burnt out, can barely see the metal beams on the ceiling through his tears - the burning soles of his feet so encompassing that he can’t feel where they start and end. “This is also an experiment to test and record pain stimulation and tolerance. You don’t have much of a tolerance - though you have gotten better”- the doctor adds, almost as an afterthought; the only compliment he’s ever given him. “If I gave you something for the pain---” _when have you ever done that_\---”or to knock you out there would be no data to record.”

Even so, as he talks, he shoots him up with something else through the days old tube in his elbow that feels cold, like everything bar the machine does here, as it goes in.

“A steroid.” Zola informs him, as if he’d asked, somewhere to his right. Bucky stares at a stain on the ceiling, takes a breath and clears his throat wetly. 

“Bar--Barnes-s, S-S-Ser," he gulps, still crying, "-gean-nt, 32--2557...0-038.”

His voice shudders with each vowel and syllable. As a response, Zola injects him again. He pulls out two of his toenails to see how fast they grow back.

. . .

  
As the hours go on and on, the tears have stopped streaming; though his voice is dry and scratchy. The pain has changed from sharp flashes of action; grows constant and pulsing, and the bandages on his feet grow grimy with blood and the dirt from the cell. He can’t even stand, can barely move; let alone run and fight. He tells Andrew who’s resting on the only cot, cradling his head as a migraine rules his afternoon. He’s calmer today, not as frantic. 

“We’ll delay’ then.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, aware Andrew’s not even looking at him to see, jaw tight. “You can’t delay. We had a plan--”

“Yeah! _We_ did!” Andrew yells, voice sharp with pain. He opens his eyes to glare at Bucky leaning against the opposite wall. He stinks of urine and vomit - had pissed himself when he had some kind of fit on the table earlier and hasn’t been able to do more than mutter and throw the food tray at him until twenty minutes ago. Bucky doesn't hold it against him, considering the guy had to carry him and hold him up when _he_ had to shit in the corner bucket yesterday on account of his feet. “Us. We made th' plan tae escape _th'gither_. So we ‘re goin’ tae fuckin’ escape th'gither. Ye git that?”

“Andrew.” Bucky sighs, trying to stay calm. “Your head will be better by morning, you’ll be up and strong again when the time comes - I won’t be. They cut my feet up yesterday, stabbed me and pulled out my toenails _yesterday_. I can’t stand - they won’t be healed for weeks, no matter that that asshole thinks - I can’t go with you.”

“That’s why we’ll wait about 'til ye can."

“Didn’t you hear me? I won’t be healed for weeks, we’ll already by dead by then if we stay. You’ve got to get out while you can.” Bucky finishes sadly, helplessly, eyes starting to water. He feels likes he’s cried twice as many cups of water out as he's drank.

Andrew words his jaw for a moment, holds back what he automatically wants to shout - his temper has been worse, like his memory, since Zola started messing with the voltage on that machine. Instead he says, “Would ye leave’ Steve?”

Bucky blanches, wiping his eyes. “What?”

“Steve. That's th' name o' th' pal ye bin telling me about, right? A've heard ye mumbling his name 'n' yer lass' name back home, Becca, a couple o' times."

“Urgh,” Bucky scoffs, disgusted, tries not to think about calling out for Steve in his delirium. “Becca’s my sister, not my---”

“Alright, not yer jammy lass then.” Andrew laughs, half-smile-half-grimace of pain on his face. “But a'm right, aren't ah? About yer best pal. His name's Steve?”

“Yeah.” Bucky replies hesitantly.

“Wel, would ye? If ye were in mah stead 'n' Steve was in yers, would ye leave’ him?” 

“That’s different!” He splutters, automatically attempting to heave himself up, and winces as his left foot twinges nastily when he shifts. "Ah!" He bites out sharply, bending his knee to lay his foot on his thigh; it vibrates with pain. He leans over it, thumbs pressed into his ankle bone to regain a semblance of composure. Andrew waits, he breathes in to himself, continues: “For one, Steve’s ninety pounds soaking wet, I could just pick him up and carry him out if I needed and--and it’s _different,_ it’s not like you could carry me and still fight like we planned---”

“Whether he's ninety pounds or two hundred that's nae th' point. If 't was Steve 'ere, would ye leav’ him when ye had a chance tae get th' both o' ye out later?”

“There might not be a chance to---”

“_Would ye_?” Andrew pushes forcefully.

Bucky swallows, “No.” He says finally, and knows it’s the truth. He raises his head from his crossed over legs to meet Andrew's eyes. “No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t leave him.”

_It’s still not the same though_, a part of his mind whispers,_ I’ve known Steve and I’ve loved Steve since we were ten years old. I’ve known you for three weeks, a month? (he thinks, maybe more), not years (though it feels like it). There’s no way I could be to you what Steve is to me._

“'An' I wouldn't leave mah brother.” Andrew replies without preamble, “Your pal is tae poorly tae join this war, far as I can tell anyway, 'n' mah brother's tae young yet, thank god. But if he wur 'ere, ther's na chance in bloody hell I'd leave him.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for one long moment. He thinks he can hear a rat scrabbling through the vent. Eventually, he says; numbly, “I’m not your brother.”

Andrew opens his mouth to say something then seems to change his mind. “But yer someone's brother, 'n' if Joey wur 'ere in this fuckin' hell-hole, too weak tae escape on his own, I'd hope that somebody would wait 'til he could. I'd hope they wouldn't leave him tae die lik' this....We planned this th'gither, we get out th'gither. That was, 'n' still is, the plan. We clear?”

Bucky sighs in resignation, twists so his feet are in the air. He crawls across the floor on his elbows, “Yeah, we’re clear. We wait.”

. . .

  
When Zola redresses his feet, Bucky as usual can’t see him, but hears him hum contemplatively. The doctor flicks his big toe like its a game. 

Andrew’s getting worse and better at the same time - stronger and more energized some days; but angrier too; pacing and banging against the walls and the door and keeping Bucky up all night. Bucky spends long days locked in the dark cell - alone and lonely (and forgotten) as Andrew spends hours and sometimes days in the lab - Zola’s favourite. All he does now with Bucky is check the healing rate on his feet, occasionally injects him with steroids and other unknown cocktails of drugs, and once cuts and cranks open Bucky’s stomach while he’s awake but dizzy and routes around his guts like he’s looking for something, before stapling him back together like some kind of macabre doll. 

Andrew on the other hand rants and yells and swears until he looses his voice, then tries to start fights with him when he comes back until whatever he’s on wears off. Two days before, he came back; wolfed down both portions of food without stopping, and still hungry - darted forwards to catch a rat trying to scurry back to the vent and bit into it, ripping it apart with his teeth. Both he and Bucky throw up that night, Andrew’s high switching off as if Zola had clicked; an awful magic and by an awful magician. He sobs and apologises to Bucky for eating all the food.

“A'm sorry, a'm so’ fucking' sorry Jimmy. Whit's wrong wi' me,_ whit th' hell is wrong_\---”

When he’s not hyped up and angry, he’s dazed, clammy and delirious, and that's when Bucky knows Zola used the machine on him that day. While he’s crawling across the floor on his hands to wet the flannel in their drinking water to try and bring down Andrew’s fever, the Scotsman says, “You look a lil' like him, yanno? Joey ---Wee Joey. Ye look lik’ him, wrong accent but th' same hair, th' same chin. Ye look lik' how ah think he would as a man, th' way a’m wantin' tae see him look when he's older, when I go home.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, what to even think to that confession other than maybe this was the real reason he wouldn’t leave. Andrew jabbers on and on and forgets Bucky’s there; starts talking to him like Bucky really is his little brother, like he’s back home in Paisley. Bucky says, “I miss you too Andy. I can’t wait for you to come home,” as he mops his brow.

If they don’t get out of here soon they’ll be no plan, no plan at all that will work. The plan relies on Andrew and he won’t last forever.

“You’re a great brother. The best.” He says, praying for the first time that Zola’s experiments start working.

. . .

  
He does.

He’s healing faster than a regular man now, had peeled back the bandages on his feet when he woke to find another rat trying to eat his little toe. He had reacted nowhere near as strongly as he should have; saves the privilege of panic and screaming for those that deserve it; for Zola and the iron lung. 

Not a rat, even if it is trying to gnaw off parts of his body. With no light, and to the soundtrack of Andrew’s snores, Bucky peels back the bandages and feels long his heels, his toes and the arch of his foot. The pain of them just lying down has been constant, to the point they have become numb in comparison to the staples pinching the muscles of his belly closed and he realizes that his feet don’t hurt at all anymore. Now, through his fingers he realizes there are old scabs on his feet, mostly healed; the dead skin starting to peel off. He takes in a slow breath, lies back down, lifts his shirt and feels along the vertical line cut into his belly. There are metal staples one inch thick in length and three inches apart. 

Zola had stapled him together, not stitched, because he plans to go back in: “there’s no point stitching you if I’m just going to undo all my work, no, this will do in the meantime, I think.” The skin underneath and in-between is still raw and Bucky imagines red and swollen, but he can feel a thin layer of skin starting to grow over the top. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, focuses on that one spot of his body he can almost feel it; skin and muscles fusing together to create new flesh.

_What am I?_

In the daytime - or what he calls the time-span when the guards drag out Andrew and leave him in the dank cell - when he’s alone, he leans against the cot and levers himself to his feet. He feels a flashes of twinges, but that’s it, and after a few moments grows used to it. It's not the worst pain he's feeling right now; sweaty and stomach cramping from not having the usual cocktails in several days. He tests it again, walking; then jogging in the same spot. Hurts, but an acceptable hurt, so he sits back down and pulls his socks and boots on for the first time in a week. He hopes Zola doesn’t use the machine this time, he needs Andrew strong. 

It’s time.

.


	6. PART 4 (c.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s in Delaware. They’ve done close to every city in every state in the United States now, and the tour is moving overseas. Europe, Italy first he thinks, to rally the troops at different bases; the closest he’s going to get to a battlefield, and then to a series of shows in London and onwards. They sail out in a week’s time.
> 
> He hasn’t had a letter or telegraph from Bucky for nearly two months - and Becca hasn’t either.

STEVE

Steve’s home.

He does shows from Yonkers, to Manhattan to Staten Island, to the Bronx and Brooklyn all in the space of a couple of days. The schedule studiously avoids Harlem, which Steve isn’t entirely happy about, but he’s not happy the majority of days anymore if he’s being honest; he's certainly not satisfied. They have one show in Brooklyn, a matinee, and then they have the rest of the afternoon off.

It’s nice, and Steve appreciates the break in schedule at least because while his body isn’t tired by the constant travel and short-stops; his mind is exhausted by the repetition. He practically skips down the steps from the Williamsburg Theatre in a nondescript brown jacket and flat-cap.

He walks familiar streets.

He gets a lot of looks, for his size and his face but also his sex - there’s no men around anymore, just the stooped-backed fellas that hover near the shoe-shine pop ups. Steve never thought he would ever say Brooklyn could be considered quiet but impossibly it almost seems so compared to the hustled markets he’s used to. Woman in clipped heels and handbags, and woman in work-boots and hair ties; smeared with oil as they make their way to the factories, signify Brooklyn’s new working class now. Steve hates to think what it’s like in places like London and Liverpool where the children have been evacuated out as well, how quiet it must be. He see’s a group of five boys, bikes stacked next to them, playing _Fivestones_ like he used to on the sidewalk, and further down a brother teaching his sister how to _‘Two Balls up The Wall’._ Steve doesn’t recognize any of them until he’s further from the main squares and closer to Red Hook, then sees who he’s pretty sure is one of the Prowman brothers; the youngest, bouncing his own ball against a stairway.

He’s almost enjoying himself in this new eerie city, right up until he waves at little Harry Prowman and the boy doesn’t recognize him. Steve swallows and keeps going.

Last year Johnny Prowman came in nearly everyday to buy a lottery ticket for his pa at the grocers Steve worked extra shifts at to cover the rent while Bucky was away training. Steve knew him well, and half the time he brought his little brother Harry too. Steve used to sneak him sweets under the counter when Johnny wasn’t looking until his boss caught him and told him if he did it again he’d be out on his ear. It didn’t matter that Steve was putting a nickle in the till every time he did it. The boy used to smile and laugh, gap in his teeth, and stuff the candy down his stitched pockets. Now he doesn’t even recognize him.

_Well, why would he? The Steve Rodgers he knows is two foot shorter and a hundred and fifty pounds lighter._ Every day that he’s in this body and people forget that there’s a Steve Rodgers in here with the Captain-America-the-fake-war-hero-patriot-of-the-nation makes his old self feel less and less real. If he’d ever even existed at all. Clearly the old Steve Rodgers is not missed.

He continues past familiar streets, closing his eyes at the first gold star in the window he sees - realizes that if he does that he’ll have to keep his eyes closed and walk blind for the next two miles. His heart pumps hard in his chest as he looks and see’s blue and gold stars in every window - more gold than there was last time he was here.

He hasn’t had a letter or telegraph from Bucky for nearly two months - and Becca hasn’t either.

He’d told the girl - _young woman now Steve, she’s all grown up_ \- that he’d gotten a job out of state. When she asked him why go and get a job out of state and away from home when he could just get a job here, he told her that this one lets him feel like he’s making a difference; and that’s something he needs right now. She understands that, or at least has heard Steve lamenting and Bucky probably complaining enough to know Steve’s sore that he can’t go to war.

He doesn’t dare tell her about Basic (or god-forbid anything else) in case she writes Bucky - who he still hasn’t bucked up the courage to tell; not even through code. He might be brave about some things, but he can be a coward about others too. She keeps in contact with Steve following that letter, which he didn’t expect and is truly honest-to-god touched at, and is annoyingly persistent when she drills him about why his letters always have different state stamps. He tells her he travels a lot, for his job.

_Right. For the job you won’t tell me about. Of course how silly of me,_ she writes, _Steven-the-travel- extraordinaire. Bullshit. You’ve got a high-school education and went to goddamn art school, Rodgers, what could they possibly have you doing to ‘make a real difference?’ _As always she is shockingly and unapologetically honest to the end; ignoring the perceived insult, Steve bites his lip; smiling at her words and the familiar cursing she’s inadvertently picked up from Mrs Barnes. 

_It’s to do with art, doing designs and that,_ He lies. _Now shut your trap, Becca Barnes, and stop being nosy._

_Stop being nosy my ass. You’re in Texas now? What the absolute fuck Steve? Does Bucky know about this?_

_You’re a goddamn wild ride Steve Rodgers, who knew?_ She’d written at last, sparking a familiar memory, and Steve had started laughing so hard he couldn’t stop for ten whole minutes in his dressing room. She really is a lot more like Bucky than she likes to admit, which he takes great delight in telling her.

She lives in Jersey now. She’d moved out and in with some girl friends three years ago, which her brother and little sisters haven’t let her live down since. _“The rents cheaper there,”_ she used to say whenever they brought it up, and Jenna Barnes, all of nine years old had sniped back, “_Yeah, but it’s still **Jersey**”_ with the most disgusted look on her face Steve has ever seen.

She also has a sweetheart now he’s heard, one she’s been keeping quiet in the Navy somewhere out near Betio island in the Pacific. He wants to marry her when he comes home, and Steve’s heart swells with pride at her happiness as much as it worries him. She, like Bucky, has always been rather particular about relationships once she’d moved away from the awkwardness brewing in their parent’s apartment, fed up of keeping Winifred Barnes’ secrets.

Her guy, whose name she won’t tell Steve out of spite for not giving her all the details she wants, is okay as far as he knows - she gets regular letters from him. Bucky’s letters have gone from irregular to non-existant. 

She tells him not to worry,_ my brothers terrible when it comes to keeping in touch, so cool your horses; you know the asshole ‘forgot’ - his words not mine - to write his favourite sister through all of Basic and most of Wisconsin when he was writing you - so don’t sweat it._

_I take offence to the favourite sister part,_ Jenna Barnes’ younger handwriting is scrawled diagonally underneath, _he didn’t forget to write **me**, so what does that tell you, you cow, go back to Jersey._

Steve can’t help it, he does sweat it, for every week that goes by with no striped airmail. He knows letters come more frequently from the Navy than they do for the infantry in Europe, but he’s paranoid. While he trusts Becca, has watched her grow up from a little madam to a responsible woman, to tell him about any telegraphs; the dreaded telegraph would go to a Brooklyn address and not a Jersey one. Paranoid and unfairly biased on Bucky’s side as he is - he doesn’t trust that the news would make it to Becca immediately, who has made a point of avoiding her ma for close to two years now - ever since George Barnes’ empty casket went into the ground.

He half runs to the Barnes’ new building, having moved again since their eldest flew the nest, until it comes into view and he falters. There’s a gold star in the window. A gold star and a blue star.

_Holy Mary, mother of god._

_ Thank you._

He closes his eyes, breathes, feels uncomfortable and perturbed by the panic that had come over him so quickly. This quiet eerie Brooklyn, he decides, is not the home he knows. He looks one last time at the second floor window, thinks about going in to see Lily and Jenna who aren’t so little anymore either; but he’s too scared they won’t recognize him as well; even if they did see his stupid face nearly everyday from birth to age seven. He salutes George Barnes’ star in the near empty street and goes for a jog, and runs all the way to Manhattan until he’s standing outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

He’s not even sweating.

It’s busier here, more tourists and art lovers but also familiar territory for Steve, which is a relief.

“Steve!”

He turns automatically at the voice, and sees Josie waving at him happily across the street and running forwards to cross without looking.

“Josie!” Steve shouts, shooting forward before he has a chance to wave back at her. He grabs hold of her right as she reaches his sidewalk, pulling her mid-prance off the road. Cars honk angrily behind her, “Oh shove off!” she shouts over her shoulder at them.

“What are you--are you crazy? You can’t just--”

“Oh relax Steve,” she says, slapping his arm, “they move twice as fast in California and I haven’t been run over yet.” She grins at him. 

He shakes his head; he honestly can’t believe half the stuff that comes out of her mouth. She’s wearing a green fur-trimmed reefer and hat, with gloves to match, and Steve does a double take - has never seen her in anything that isn’t her costume or blue birthday dress before - let alone winter wear.

“Fancy seeing you here, huh honey?” She carries on, winking at him as usual, “Maybe it’s fate.”  
  
“Stop it.” He tells her, trying not to smile at the brazen flirting.

“Oh but it’s so fun to see you squirm,” she replies, “Geez, it is cold. Is it usually this cold here?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, “In New York?”

“No, on the moon. Of course I mean New York.”

He laughs quietly, looks up at the tall buildings. He shrugs, “Normally it’s colder.”

“Colder?!” Josie asks, sounding scandalized.

“It’s only just turned November.” He replies, trying not to laugh at her expression.

“Only Novem--” she splutters, “any colder and my legs are going to turn into popsicles, _only November,_ are you serious?”

“It’s not that cold!”

“There’s snow on the ground, Steven!”

“There’s always snow here,” he protests, “It’s _New York_.”

“Well in Los Angeles we’re not used to snow - we’re used to sun all year round I’ll have you know.” She fires back, and then switches back to her old point. “Not that cold?” she scoffs again, “says the fella whose wearing a jacket thinner than my tights. How are you not freezing?”

Steve shrugs, grinning. It seems Becca and Josie, the only two woman still in his life are the only ones who can make him smile anymore. “Maybe I’m just used to it,” he excuses, “What are you doing here?”

“Why seeing the sights of course,” she tells him, spreading her arms out to encompass the whole city. “I’ve never been to New York before.”

“You haven’t? Never?” Steve asks, surprised. They travel so much, he’d just assumed.

“Like I said, I’m a Californian girl through and through. And you know what they say about Californian girls,” she adds again, relentless, looking sly until Steve rolls his eyes at her.

“What have you seen so far?” He asks instead, pulling her out of the way of a harried looking businessman and out of the wind. She catches her hat from flying off with one hand and pulls out a crumpled pamphlet. Steve laughs at the sight of her squinting at the map.

“Well,” she says, ”I saw the Statue of Liberty of course, from the bridge not the islands, obviously, I actually want to have time to see other things--”

“The ferries probably aren’t running in this weather.”

She waves off Steve’s words like they mean nothing, “and I think I saw the Empire State Building, that’s the new-ish one, isn’t it, the one built in the ‘30s?”

“What do you mean _you think you saw_ the Empire State? How is there a_ think_ in that sentence?”

Josie huffs dramatically, “There’s a lot of really tall buildings here Steve, you’ll have to excuse me if I get a little confused.”

Steve laughs and tugs her round the corner, “Where are we going?” She asks as they come to the end of the block. 

Steve turns her and points over the top of Central Park, “That’s the Empire State.”

She cocks her head, observing it’s steeple. “Oh,” she says, “That’s not the one I was looking at at all.”

A spray of laughter comes out of him abruptly, and it keeps going, unrestrained, as soon as he gets a look at her dejected face. She calls him a toerag again while he leans into a wall and tries to get a handle on himself. “Okay okay,” he relents, holding his hands up. Josie pouts at him, and goes back to looking at her map. 

He laughs one more time. “Are any of the other girls with you?”

“Huh? Oh no. Well, some of them went out, I think, but they’ve been here before so didn’t want to spend the afternoon ‘traipsing across the city to look at old buildings’.” She rolls her eyes, “Please, Clara wouldn’t know sophistication if it hit her in the face.”

“Hey” Steve admonishes, “That’s not nice.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Steve opens his mouth to retort, then closes it, because she does kind of have a point. Not that you should ever said it aloud, even to other people. He changes the subject. “Where else do you want to go?”

“Well I came here, ‘cause it’s on the map and because of the art, and obviously it’d be nice to see the park I suppose which is also here, but I’m not fussed. I mean, how nice can a park in the middle of a city really be, when you’ve been to Montana” _\---true--_-”and there’s the bridges and Rockefeller Center, ooh that’s a must, I hear they have ice-skating and a Christmas tree - I love Christmas - and of course Broadway, who can forget the _Theatre district_\---”

“That’s a lot of stuff to fit into one evening,” Steve cuts in, smiling as Josie rants. It grows when she pouts and looks almost distressed.

“You don’t think I can do it all?”

“In one night?” Steve's smile turns apologetic, “It’s not going to be easy; a lot of that stuff is in different parts of the city.”

She sighs in disappointment, “That’s what I was worried about, I knew it was too much. I didn’t really plan anything, just kinda’ decided I was gonna go - I guess I didn’t really think it through.”

“It’s a nice idea.”

“I wish we were here for longer. It’s not the same exploring a new city on your own, you need a local who knows all the tricks and trades--" Her expression changes as something seems to occur to her. "--Say Steve, are you doing anything tonight?”

Her switch from dejection to excitement is so fast Steve almost gets whiplash, and he widens his eyes - a startled deer-in-headlights expression on his face.

Josie’s excited grin dims a little, “You can say no, don’t worry, it was just an idea--”

“Where do you want to go first?”

She breaks out in the widest smile Steve’s ever seen on her, three times as bright as the one she wears on stage, “Where do you suggest; tour guide of mine?” She asks, linking arms with him and rocking on her heels.

“You said you love Christmas - even though you hate snow,” here he rolls his eyes, “and I don’t know if the lights will be on but the tree could be there - so how bout we go see that Christmas tree? And head to Broadway after?”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful. And ice-skating?”

“And maybe ice-skating.”

“Oh Steve, you gentleman, you.” Josie teases as she follows him, tucked close to him in the cold. “Anyone would think you’re being sweet so you can have your way with me later - oh what will I tell the girls?”

“Stop it,” he laughs again.

She winks at him from under the fur of her hat, “Never.”

. . .

Steve’s in Delaware. They’ve done close to every city in every state in the United States now, and the tour is moving overseas. Europe, Italy first he thinks, to rally the troops at different field bases; the closest he’s going to get to a battlefield, and then to a series of shows in London and elsewhere. They sail out in a week’s time.

New York, and the Christmas Tree and the impromptu ice-skating was four days ago. He remembers telling Agent Carter how his conversation in the car with her was the longest conversation he’s ever had with a woman, knows it not true now - even if Josie spent most of the time ice-skating laughing at him on his ass and the worry on his face when she’d fallen on hers. 

He likes to think he’s better now, and might even impress Ms Carter if he ever sees her again, which he doubts, with a whole two or even three conversations.

Bucky on the other hand would be busting his chops for not making the move on Josie that she obviously wanted that night, when they’d ended up in a milk bar of all places after the city went into dim-out. He always used to tell Bucky, as he’d told Agent Carter, that he was waiting for the right gal, the right partner; but his friend had never really respected it. 

He meant well of course, he always meant well. With the double dates -”_I’ve told her how swell you are Steve, she can’t wait to meet you_” - and the sly comments -”_It’s nice and respectable to wait Steve, but at the same time I’m sure your perfect partner might appreciate you knowing what you’re doing - I can give you a few pointers if you want_” until Steve threw a book at him, were always meant well.

He just never quite got it, no matter how hard he tried. Bucky could get angry on his behalf, had blacklisted dames sometimes “_for your honour Steve_”; ”_shut up you asshole_”, but he could never quite understand - not when he looked the way he did. 

People used to say he was a ladies man: “_that Barnes boy, I saw him with Connie’s girl last week and Abby Rosco yesterday - when will those girls learn to stay away from fellas like that”_ \- but the truth is, he isn’t. He was friendly with a lot of the girls in the neighbourhood and he liked to dance. That was it really. He loves music and he loves dancing - could do it all night until the sun rose in the west and set in the east if he wanted to, and so he would invite dames out to dance and walk them home after.

“He never brings any home,” Becca Barnes told him once before Steve’s ma passed; that’s how he tracks the times; before and after Sarah Rodgers.

“He could be going back to theirs.” Steve had responded and Becca had rolled her eyes at him like he was the dimmest person in all of Brooklyn.

“_As if_ Rodgers. He just takes them dancing, that’s it.”

She later told him Abby Sullivan had told her, that she heard from Louise Clarke that her older sisters had told her - _honestly, girls_ \- that Bucky was safe because he was up for having a good time but ‘not that kind of good time’ and girls never had to worry about him trying anything on - not unless they wanted him to.

And if they did and Bucky wanted to as well - then he went steady with them like he did with Rosie Skye’s French cousin that summer. 

“He won’t bring them home, or go to theirs; he knows better than that;” than walking into a family home and having a dame introduce him as a ‘friend’. As much as they argued and as much as Becca underestimated him and Bucky her, they were surprisingly - or unsurprisingly - matched on this one particular topic.

Bucky once took Susie Maisel to the dance halls every week for a month, when they _both_ knew she and Lucy Coulson were carrying on with each other - but she liked to dance too. So they danced together and Buck ignored everyone else in that hall like he used to ignore disgruntled fathers and jealous fellas, grabbed Lucy Coulson and twirled her so many times she lost her balance and fell into Susie in time for the slow dance. Steve had seen him do it, seen him slip away into the crowd for a glass of tap water and knew then and there that Becca was right.

Bucky would have taken Josie dancing, would have asked her if she wanted it - kissed her - and asked if she wanted to do the same again the next Friday.

He isn’t Bucky. He can only dance slightly better than he can ice-skate and he’s kissed dames in teenage games before but he’s never done _that._ Never taken someone or been taken home himself, and they weren’t in New York any longer for him to take her home to his shoebox apartment.

He’s in Delaware. He still hasn’t had a letter from Bucky, not since he was in Cleveland, so he scrunches up the letter asking for advice and throws it in the trash-can - he won’t answer this one either.

. . .

Josie knocks on his door after the show.

. . .

“Have you ever done this before?” She asks him later.

“No,” Steve admits, embarrassed and nervous.

“It’s okay honey. Don’t worry.” She grins at him, not a mark out of place. She's wearing nothing else but her red lipstick. Steve can admit it’s a little - a lot - more overwhelming than he thought it would be.

“I’ll make it good for you, I promise. Trust me first-timer, you won’t know what’s hit you.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REFERENCES:
> 
> (1) FIVESTONES/JACKS: Street game played by children in the early-mid 20th century. The object is to throw the five stones into the air and catch them on the back of the hand. What followed was a method of picking up the remaining stones until all have been collected. Jacks are a very similar game where five metal-pronged ‘stones’ are used whilst bouncing a small ball. 
> 
> (2) TWO STONES UP THE WALL: Street game played by children in the early-mid 20th century. Hold two balls in your hands and throw them up against the wall one by one and carefully catch them. Once confident add another ball then another. Let one bounce, throw another under one leg. The combinations were endless.
> 
> (3) BLUE STAR BANNER: A member of the family is serving in the Armed Forces. These were often hung in homes or car windows during World War Two.  
(4) GOLD STAR BANNER: A member of the family has died in the Armed Forces. These were also often hung in homes or car windows.
> 
> NOTES:
> 
> Next chapter will be up either later this week or the next. The Great Escape begins.


	7. PART 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky likes the sound of that. “Yeah.” He says breathlessly. “Let’s just live for tonight.” 
> 
> He pushes Andrew onto his back; his friend’s eyes are wide. He looks scared for a moment, probably like Bucky does, and then something happily desperate comes over his face.
> 
> “We could die th’morrow.” he repeats.
> 
> Bucky smiles tearfully, “But tonight we live.” He says it like a prayer and kisses deeper than he’s done night and night; hands roaming further than they have before.

BUCKY

Bucky doesn’t have to say anything when they bring Andrew back in and unlatch the hooks from the collar they are wearing as permanent fixtures now. Andrew looks at him sat on the cot, and his eyes flick down to his feet; back up to his face. He’s wearing his boots after all.

He raises his eyebrow. Bucky cants his head a centimetre - they’ve gotten good at their own unspoken language. Andrew keeps his face straight so as to not give anything away and curses at the last guard as he leaves to keep up appearances.

He sits beside Bucky in silence.

“How long ago did they-”

“Hours ago. ‘ts worn off by no’ mostly.”

“No machine?”

Andrew shakes his head, though the fact that he was standing and walking upright when they brought him in gives it away. “No t’day. Na th’morrow either.” He starts to explain before Bucky can turn his head questioningly. “I think they keep forgetting ’m there ‘n’ can hear them, or they dinnae care - making the plans fur th’ next trials. They’re taking me back ‘n again tomorrow.”

“To the other room?”

“Let’s hope.” Andrew says, and boots Bucky’s foot with his own. If you did that a week ago he would near about pass out. He watches Bucky’s face for any twinge of pain and Bucky looks back at him, face flat, because it doesn’t hurt. “What about yer tummy? I know they cut ye up so dinnae try ‘n’ go denying it - I heard them say so.”

“My stomach’s fine.”

“Show me.”

“Andrew”

“_Show me_.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes and shuffles backwards to pull his shirt up, quips, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Why dinnae we save that ‘til we’re out, ye impatient bastard.” Andrew retorts, mutters, ”_shit_,” when he looks at Bucky’s stapled stomach, cut from diaphragm to just under his belly button.

“It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fuckin’ fine.”

“It’s healing.”

“Like hell ‘ts healing, I heard them cut ye open only the day before or somethin' like that. Stop lying to me ye bast”

“Andrew.” Bucky cuts him off. “I’m healing. I promise you, I’m healing. I can feel it.”

Andrew looks at him the same way Bucky looked at him after he ate that rat,_ which is a little unfair_, Bucky thinks, _when you compare the two scenarios._

“Ye caye can feel it?”

Bucky nods slowly, takes his hand and presses it against the top gap in the staples so he can clearly feel the scab starting to form at the edge. Andrew yanks his hand back like he’s been burnt, staring at the metal in horror. “That’s fucked up James.”

“What isn’t here?” He rockets right back, “I can probably pull them”

“Don’t, dinnae fucking pull them out!” Andrew snaps at him in a strange deja vou of the first day they met - when Bucky stopped him from poisoning himself on rotten food. Since when did he become the one that needed to be held back?

“I’m serious, I told you I’m healing. I can probably” He moves his hand to his stomach, Andrew catches his wrist sharply, his grip tight enough to break bone.

“I said _don’t!_”

Bucky yanks on his wrist sharply, away from the super-human pressure, grimacing. Andrew lets go just as abruptly. He wipes his hand on what’s left of his trousers, which is a way to distract himself Bucky knows. He knows all of Andrew's bluffs.

“Are ye sureI don’t”

“Andrew, I’m sure. I’m as ready as I’m gonna be.”

“We can wait a bit a’ longer”

“We’ve already waited too long!” Bucky hisses, frustration sparking. “We wait any longer and we’ll never get out. Stop putting it off!”

“I’m not bleedin’ putting it off!”

“Yes you are - you did it before and you’re doing it now - I don’t know if your scared”

“now hang about”

“but I don’t _fucking care_ Andrew, alright? I don’t fucking care. I want out”

“So da’ I.”

“Then get with the program. I’m ready, you’re ready - now - tomorrow. If we skip it and they cut me up again and put you back in that machine and you forget this conversation I swear to god.”

“A’ wouldn’t forget this - what th’ hell ye talking about? And I’m not the one we were having to wait for’, with your poor ickl’ wickl’ feet”

“Yes you do! You forget shit _all the time._ All the time! Every time you come out of that machine you’re worse, not that you know it because you fucking forget! Over and over! And you didn’t have to wait for me, I told you to go!” 

He’s yelling by the end; doesn’t know when he started or when he stood up so that he’s taller than the Scotsman, but he has done. Andrew yanks him back down, looking over his shoulder, panicked, at the door. “Jesus Christ, tak’ it down a notch.”

“You take it down a notch.” Bucky retorts petulantly, like a child, slumping back into the wall. He’s so done. He feels so funky without the drugs he kinda' wants them back in him to take the edge off. “I want out. I’m ready.” He repeats, quieter, but still harsh, messing with the tube port stuck in his elbow. “They’ll cut me up again and shove you back in if we wait. We’re going. Tomorrow.”

Andrew sucks in a deep breath, nods sharp and quick.

. . .

  
Later, they go over the plan again so they’re absolutely clear.

“What about yer stomach?”

Bucky keeps his temper, “It’s fine. It’s healed, doesn’t even hurt.” He lies for the fourth time, knowing Andrew has forgotten what it looks like.

“Are you sure you know the way from the room back here?” Bucky himself asks, for the fourth time.

“I already told ye Jay, aye, I’ know th’ way - I’m nae gonna’ forget about ye, for fucks sakes.”

There must be something on his face because Andrew frowns at him and takes his hand. “Hey. James. I’m nae gonna forget about ye a’right, ah swear.”

Bucky swallows and looks away, wishes he could believe it - he used to trust Andrew explicitly, doesn’t know when in the last week it changed. But it has.

“James! We’re getting out th’gether, I’m comin’ back fur ye, I’m always gonna' come back fur you.”

Bucky pushes the doubt off his face, “Okay.”

. . .

They try to sleep. It’s clear neither of them can. Andrew starts sawing at his self-made knife by the drain again.

“It’s sharp enough, Andy.”

Andrew cants his head, “Could be sharper.”

. . .

The waiting is torture, and with little else to do they wash themselves for the third time with the bucket and harsh soap the guards left in their cell, scrubbing at each other’s backs and rinsing each other’s beards. Andrew spends the entire time avoiding Bucky’s stomach when he’s bare-chested so he rolls his eyes and grabs the sponge off him.

He starts rubbing harshly at the wound while he stares eye to eye at Andrew.

“Fucking baby.” He calls him, and Andrew turns to look at him, annoyed, until he sees the smirk on Bucky’s face.

. . .

He makes Bucky do push ups and sit ups to prove his stomach is fine enough to run and fight with. Bucky clenches his stomach the whole time so no one moment is more painful than another. He manages ten each before his arms go too wobbly to hold himself up from hunger and weakness. In order to conserve energy they haven't been exercising while in here; just sleeping, or sitting, or sharpening bed poles, or laying down, or kissing, or doing other stuff; and so he's entirely unfit. The unfittest he's ever been. His arms collapse under him when he attempts the eleventh push-up, and he bites back the grunt as he hits the floor. The fall is not because of his stomach, at least.

Andrew grudgingly admits he’s capable, if barely.

. . .

  
“Were ye serious before?” Andrew asks when they’re sat on the floor, not the bed, so they can look at the night sky through their tiny window. They can see one single star.

“I’m always serious, I’m a serious cat.”

“Sure ye are Bugs Bunny.” Andrew breaks off, never one to let Bucky have the last word. His face steels itself into something cold and hard._ Here we go_. “Ye said I keep forgetting things, ‘n’ then forgetting I’m forgetting them. Was that true? Or just ye trying to win th’ the pumpin’ argument?”

It’s a fair question. Bucky’s done it before, to Steve and his sisters and to Andrew; has made something up that never happened so he wouldn’t lose. He hates losing, even stupid petty arguments. Steve hates losing the same way, so their fights are truly a spectacular sight to behold. 

This isn’t one of those times. 

“You’ve asked me four times tonight why I’m wearing my boots when my feet are cut up,” he admits. “You forgot my name the other day, and I had to introduce myself again like we were meeting for the first time. Just about scared the shit outta' me.”

Andrew’s quiet for a long time.

“I dinnae remember that,” he says finally.

“I know.” Bucky tells him, “It’s okay.”

“No, ‘ts not.”

“I suppose not,” Bucky admits, crossing their feet at the ankles, and pointing at their window. “You reckon that’s the North Star?”

“No.” Andrew replies flatly, and smacks at Bucky’s chest until he looks at him - he knows all of Bucky’s bluffs too. He says, serious-like, “I won’t forget ye tomorrow. I’m coming back.”

Bucky smiles, tries to keep the pain off his face. “I know.”

Andrew smiles back and takes his jaw in both hands, and Bucky knows what’s coming - _he welcomes it. _

This is only the second time Andrew has begun their nightly kisses. Though he was the one to start the cycle on that first day; it's been Bucky's kisses he's been chasing since. It's always Bucky who takes the responsibility of choosing the moments; eyes aware and sincere, deciding whether Andrew needs _this_ or _that._ The last few days have been _that_, recently, as Andrew has needed comfort and quiet - laid with his head on Bucky's lap or in his arms; hidden away from the eyes of rats and dripping drainpipes - more than kisses. It feels right now though, for him to be the one to start tonight off when they don't know what'll come tomorrow - come round full circle.

Andrew likes to play with his hair and trail his fingers over the back of Bucky’s neck - deep in his hair and feather-like on the spine, so it almost tickles. Bucky likes to wrap his whole body around Andrew until they almost feel like one person, skin flush and warm. It's the only time he feels truly comfortable in this terrible life of theirs, when he's so close he can hear the other's heartbeat, or when Andrew's fingers are deep in the thick tendrils of his knotted hair, brushing it out in gentle sweeps. He kisses Bucky again, hands still framed on his cheeks, and when he pulls away Bucky chases him; pushing forward. Andrew follows the lead, stepping backwards and backwards andThey bash into the corner of the bedframe with the momentum; it _clatters_; they laugh; they rinse and repeat. Repeat again. They end up in switched over positions, still kissing, Andrew’s hands in his hair and Bucky’s hands against the new bulging muscles of his back.

This is all he wants, now and forever if this cell is all forever will bring.

Bucky's the one who pulls away this time, “We could die tomorrow.”

“We could die every day.” Andrew retorts, trying to pull him back in, hand smoothing and feeling up his chest under his shirt. Bucky lets him for another minute, sinking, then moves to catch his breath against Andrew’s throat. He kisses him there lightly.

“We don’t escape everyday - we don’t plan to run into the forest and get lost like Hansel and Gretel,” he murmurs with none of his usual filter.

“What ye on about now--”

“--Or kill as many Krauts as we can with a bed pole.”

Andrew groans into him, pulling back. “James seriously, stop. I’ dinnae want to be thinking about tha’ now. That’s th’morrows task. Lets just live fur tonight.”

Bucky likes the sound of that. He really _really_ likes the sound of that - its one of the most glorious things he's ever heard, in fact.

“Yeah.” He says breathlessly. “Let’s just live for tonight.” 

He pushes Andrew onto his back; his friend’s eyes are wide. He looks scared for a moment, probably like Bucky does, and then something happily desperate comes over his face.

“We could die th’morrow.” he repeats.

“We could,” Bucky says, closer.

“But nae tonight. Tonight we live.”

Bucky smiles tearfully, “Tonight we live.”

He says it like a prayer. He leans down and over, kissing one, two - and on the third: _deep and searching_, deeper than he’s ever done - night after night after glorious night. Their hands roam further than they have before too, exploring gentle and soft; clenching aroused and powerful into skin and wiry left-over muscle. They don't simply help each other out when they're hard tonight. Soon enough; Bucky's boots are taken off again as is much of everything else. Andrew kisses him against his bristly throat, noses at his ear from behind; hugging him close. Bucky strains his neck back to return the kiss under his chin, twisting his face into the crook of Andrew's neck. He smells like carbolic soap - and...and _love_.

"Keep going." Andrew says when the thought catches and he pauses in surprise.

It's not really an order, but Bucky obeys as _his guy_ focuses on slicking up his hand, and then especially his fingers with what little they have. Bucky litters his neck with kisses, then his arms, nuzzling him. Andrew moans out a sigh at the bite, other hand clenching around his ribs, open palmed. A hand brushes against his groin, slick with spit, it tugs a couple of times, massaging. Bucky moans,_ oh yeah, because fuck me, he's already way past hard_; and so is Andrew, he can feel the pressure; erect, near the small of his back.

"You pulling a sword on me in the dark, there?" He can't help it.

Andrew laughs, "You're terrible, that was - fuckin' terrible, you asshole."

Bucky returns it. "Just saying, you gonna stick me with it good, aren't ya, so I"

"That's _worse_, how did you ever get a lass with lines as shit as those?"

Bucky captures him in another backwards kiss. "My face." He answers.

Andrew considers that, cocking his head, then considers _him_, framing his face with his other hand. He leans in for a quick peck, Bucky returns it, rubbing his other hand over Andrew's bearded jaw, bringing them closer. "Yea' alright," he admits, taking a breath when Bucky pushes his luck on making the kiss deeper. "Good fuckin' point."

Bucky opens his mouth, about to spin a, '_are you calling me handsome, good kind sir_'right as Andrew tugs making perfect eye contact, and the words die. Andrew's always been so fucking good at this. Likely been helping himself out for longer than Bucky has. He moans again, and reaches; then Andrew slaps his hand away when he tries to search to repay the favour. "Just wait, I've got a plan, a good plan for me," he says, going higher to where Bucky's beginning to leak; and rolls his fingers.

"Oh, do you now--okay no,_ your plan. Your-plan-is-good,-your-plan-is-great_."

Andrew's grins, all teeth, and his hand uses the pleasurable distraction to move further back. And Bucky grunts as he's opened up. _Oh, woah, woah_the sound he makes is unexpected and strained against Andrew's pulse-point. 

The smile goes; Andy ducks his head down quick at the sound as soon as it's out, worried, almost pulling back. "Woah, 'ey, are yerDo ye want me to stop"

Bucky shakes his head frantically into his neck. "No, no," He moans; already feeling a part of himself shaking. "Just, not expecting..." he gasps, "justkeep going. It's fine, it'll get better justit's fine, good. You're amazing."

A laugh rumbles out of his favourite throat as he noses against it, "I could say that to you too, with that irresistible face tha" 

Bucky captures his mouth in a kiss before he can finish. Andrew kisses him back softly to ease the discomfort with an assurance of "I'll go slow," and it’s already too much after nothing for so long, and it’s not enough at the same time, too filthy and too pleasurable. _This - wow, it's new, so new - he wasn't expecting it to feel like_Andrew kisses him again, deep, distracting. He's so warm, he's so good. Bucky wants him. It works for a little while, then he has to pull away, shuddering into the cot and into Andrew, who holds his position, but pauses.

“You're a monster,” he gasps, and Andrew has the audacity to laugh, a breathy sound against his face. "You absolutefuckingtease."

He releases the wide palmed touch over Bucky’s ribs to smooth his hand back through his hair as he adds a second finger. Bucky, as his name proclaims; _bucks_ into the touch.

Andrew works him open slowly, methodically almost, until Bucky is writhing beneath him and angling his legs to pull Andrew’s hips closer.

"Have youdid you lie? Have you done this before?"

Andrew shakes his head, "not w'th a fella. Learning on the job and all that is kinda' me' bit."

Bucky laughs, shaking into him, backing up further and further as Andrew works, squeezing the arm he has trapped under him. "Don'tdon't think you got anything to learn, Andy-Pandy."

"Now who's kissing me' ass?"

Bucky shudders out a, "I wish," which makes Andrew's smile widen. "I haven'tMe neither." Bucky admits, which is probably pointless considering it's so obvious. It's funny, how they've never actually talked about going this far beforebut why haven't they? Why haven't' they been doing this all along - they were already sinning just with that first deviant kiss, so why not sin all the way? He'd say this couldn't be a sin, not when it's made him the happiest he's been in a long time, but that's how the devil gets you, ain't it? He doesn't care, he's going down not up when he goes eitherway.

"A know, 'hat."

"Glad we could--I'm glad we can, can do this...together too." He manages after a few false starts, breathing heavily. "So glad. I"

"Me too." Andrew interrupts, softly but insistently, and they kiss longing and deep. The way he's looking at Bucky now after those words, when he leans back just above him, says it all. It's something special. They're so lucky to have each other.

"Still good?" Andrew asks again, which is such a stupid question Bucky can't even tell you. There are all sorts of needy sounds escaping his throat as he clings to the side of the bedframe for dear life, imprinting the corner angle into his skin, but he doesn’t care anymore, not really, not when Andrew is looking at him like this, all blown pupils and dark reverence. He bites his lips, then a growl rips it's way from him as Andrew begins to move his hand, slow and steady pushes with his fingers inside of him until he's knuckle deep - then stops for a moment. Bucky twists his body to reach further back and lay another one on his lips, or maybe bite his own mark into his neck and and Andy's fingers_ twitch_. It connects to somethingo_h god, screw the sin. Fucking screw it to all hells and all heavens_. He shoves his head into the crook of Andy's neck, crying out in all sorts of pleasure, unable to speak. He threads his hand through Andy's instead as reassurance, laid over Bucky's diaphragm, and squeezes in time with Andrew's pulses.

"That's one way tae do it." Andrew mumbles into him, sounding wrecked himself at the new learning-curve _Bucky's_ just thrown at him this time. It carries on, slow and careful, and it's pretty damn wonderful; honestly. 

"Hmm," Bucky hums, and Andy must feel him clench around the digits inside as well as outside, because he moans too. Bucky says: "I'm ready, I'm ready."

"Ye sure?"

Bucky nods; pulling away so Andrew's hand is released from its quest. He turns over, takes his jaw in both hands; and smacks one on him real good as a proper answer. Andrew chases him, Bucky can feel the smile through the kiss, and it makes him giddy until he's grinning from ear to ear. He wants to keep eye contact, but the angles not right when Andrew's still so sore even when Bucky's doing all the work, so they compromise, and Andrew hugs him tightly from behind, slotted together on the tiny cot; and Bucky litters his arms with open-mouths kisses, leaving his own marks to replace Zola's. Andrew's other hand threads through his too-long hair; and he pushes forwards and _in._ They become truly one.

It's beautiful.

. . .

Bucky’s on his knees at Andrew’s feet. Andrew’s hand cradles through his hair.

Bucky glances up at the touch, smiles briefly, and then goes back to tucking Andrew’s shiv into his sock where the Krauts won’t see it.

“You’ll keep yer’s on ye, ready to go, yeah?”

“’Course.” Bucky responses, moving his head when Andrew hits a ticklish spot by his ear.

“If anythin’ goes wrong - if they come to tak’ ye ‘fore I do--”

“That won’t happen.”

“If it does - dinnae hesitate, dinnae let them tak’ ye again, ye understand me?”

Bucky pulls Andrew’s trousers over his boots, checks again to make sure you can’t see the outline of the blade or the spring they’ve wrapped around it like a handle. He stands, “We’re getting out together, remember.”

“But if--”

“If that happens,” Bucky continues, “I’ll stab them with my bed pole and run until we find each other. Okay?”

Andrew nods.

It’s dawn. They’ll come for him soon.

“I’ll come back fur’ you.” Andrew repeats once again. 

Bucky pulls him close and they cling to each other at the centre of the dawning sun beam for a long _long_ time.

“Thank you.” Andrew whispers in his ear. “For last night and everything else._ Thank you_.”

  
The lock on the door unlatches, “Right boot,” Bucky whispers the reminder, and they part like they were never hugging to begin with.

  
The door opens, the big one comes in; Achter after him, keys jangling from his hand. Andrew’s eyes follow their path. The third guard, Wagner, who has new unblemished goggles steps in behind him and cocks his gun at Andrew. This is normal.

“Schaut ihn.” (“Check him.”) Achter orders and the Big one comes for Bucky.

_Oh shit._

The big guy comes alone without a collar pole but with a readily-charged baton. Lohmer almost killed him with one of those batons. He shoves Bucky back at the wall, traps his body and his way out, baton pushing painfully into his Adam’s apple across his throat and chest. Bucky on instinct goes to throw a punch, an uppercut or to go for the groin (_can’t play dirty in boxing matches but you can in back alleys_) as he does.

“Do that and he dies!” Achter snaps out in heavily accented English. Wagner steps closer with the gun levelled at Andrew’s head. “Stand down.”

“James!” Andrew snaps, look on his face that says ‘don’t do it, don’t stand down’.

Bucky submits anyway, holding his hands up and grunts as the guard pushes harder against his chest and throat. Achter steps carefully towards him, pinning the keys to his belt on the ring there - Bucky tries not to follow it. He picks up the collar pole where it’s leaning in the doorway. He looks at Bucky’s feet.

_They’re fucked. They’re fucked. _

_The plans off, they’re fucked. _

_Do they know?_

“Check his belly,” Achter orders in easy German. Bucky’s pretty sure the big guy growls at him from behind his mask before he yanks his shirt up to expose Bucky’s midsection. The staples are ugly, but Andrew takes in a quiet but sharp breath, and that’s how Bucky knows there’s been an obvious change, even just over night.

_Oh no._

“Er heilt,” (“He’s healing.”) the big one barks out, staring at the closing wound. Achter pulls off his goggles and mask, and Bucky see’s his face for the first time. He’d be quite handsome, if he wasn’t a tremulous first-grade asshole. Andrew’s subtly shaking his head at him, like he knows what Bucky wants to say.

The man leans forward, frowning, and pulls his glove off. He reaches forward like Bucky tried to, but Andrew’s not there this time to catch his hand before he pulls one of the staples out - slowly but firmly. Bucky feels himself bleeding a little, but he also feels his skin immediately start to pucker.

“Herr Doktor hatte recht,” (“The doctor was right.”) Achter seems to murmur before he jerks his head at the big one. He pushes into Bucky harder and Achter reaches for his boot - Andrew starts forward.

“Bleiben Sie, wo Sie sind!” (“Stay where you are!”)

Bucky tells him _‘no’_ with hard eyes. He stops, clearly unhappy, and worried. Bucky flicks his eyes to the corner of the bed and Andrew gets the message.

He doesn’t have his shiv on him or in his sock. It’s still under the bed, in their hiding place. _Thank god._

_So much for bibaxt now huh, ma?_

Achter pulls his sock off - he no longer has scabs on his feet - threaded pink scars in their place. _Well, that was quick_.

He nods sharply and stands back, leaving Bucky hovering barefoot over the filthy floor, then picks up the collar pole; the big one releases him. Then he punches him hard in the stomach, right to the side of where the staple was just pulled out. Bucky cries out without meaning to, dropping to his knees. There’s blood on his hand.

“James!” Andrew starts forward again and Bucky hears another gun cock, knows this one’s pointed down at his bowed head. The message is clear, with guns aimed at both of them.

_They must know. They must know, how do they know?_

“James are ye--”

“Mund halten, Abschaum!” (“Keep your mouth shut, scum!”) 

Andrew cuts himself off. Achter locks Andrew’s collar onto the pole, “Wir bringen diesen Ort dorthin, wo er geplant ist, informieren Herr Doctor über den anderen-er wird sich selbst sehen wollen.” (“We'll take this one to where he's scheduled, inform Herr Doctor about the other one - he will want to see for himself.”)

Bucky and Andrew understand enough. They’ve got away with it - they don’t know the plan and don’t know about Andrew’s knife but they know about Bucky’s healing. Zola will know soon, and they’ll take him to the table today after all. They'll take him early.

_I’ll be quick_, Andrew tries to say with his face as he’s led off and the door locks behind then; Bucky on his knees on the floor.

. . .

  
He scrambles quickly after they leave. He wipes the blood on his hand onto his trousers - ignores his bleeding stomach; tugs his boot back on as quickly as he can. He scrabbles under the bed, barely misses catching his fingers on his own blade as he pulls it loose.

He backs himself in the space next to the back of the door, and waits.

_He’s forgotten me._

_What if he’s forgotten me?_ His paranoid brain spirals around like it has been doing all night despite Andrew’s assurances.

_What if he forgets I exist and he leaves me here? What if he does remember but they come for me before?_

_Wait._

They have a plan for that, they talked about it last night, before. Before.

Bucky clenches his hand around the knife, tries to remember where the weaknesses in the guards’ uniforms are and the quickest and quietest ways to kill a man. _Are these thoughts considered a sin?_

_Those men are a sin_, his un-Catholic brain tells him, _they’re parasites, a sickness. Wipe them out - the devil will be pleased to have them._

_What if he’s forgotten me?_

_What if he hasn’t and he’s already dead?_

The door unlatches and slams open. Bucky goes in swinging and twists his blade at the last second to avoid Andrew’s neck.

“Oh God. Andy. Andy.”

“Go! We need tae go!” Andrew orders, looking wild, his pupils huge and frenzied. They gave him the serum before they locked him up, the_ idiots_. He’s covered in blood, and in the moment he has Bucky checks to see if any of it is his. It doesn’t look like it, and his friend’s transportation collar is ripped as though Andrew literally tore it by the sheer force of his neck.

_Jesus Christ, Andy._

“Come on!” Andrew grabs him by the forearm and yanks, forgetting his own strength. Bucky doesn’t care, barely feels it over the blood pumping adrenaline. He shoves and twists until he’s holding Andrew’s hand instead.

They’re running, just like in his dream.

Bucky yanks Andrew round, hard, and uses his own momentum. The guard runs straight into his blade, and Bucky stabs deep again and slashes it across the guy’s chest until he’s spurting blood and drops to the ground. He kicks at the side of another one’s knee who grunts and falls and Andrew uses his hands and not his knife and crushes the guy’s skull. It’s quick work at least. Andrew kicks another one when he goes for his radio and the guy slams hard into the wall twelve feet away. Bucky cuts his throat, pulls the grenade from his belt, pulls the clip and flings it at the guards he hears coming round the corner.

Andrew grabs his hand again and they pelt it down the corridor. The grenade was one of the ones filled with glowing blue energy that he saw at Azzano. He trips and is thrown into the wall from the concussive blast as it goes off behind them. Andrew heaves him up - they keep going.

“Achter?” Bucky snaps out, shoves a guard back so Andrew can snap his neck like a toothpick.

“Dead.”

“The others?”

“Dead. But th’ have cameras, they would ha’e seen me.”

Bucky took the radio of the man whose throat he cut. They’re calling in an assault team - they’ve killed eight already with a broken bed pole and their bare hands. _Bring it_, he thinks savagely, remembers when Andrew said _‘let them fuckin’ try ‘n’ tak’ ma’ tongue.’_

He wonders if any of the others - his men; Dugan, Jones, Arnery, McNintosh, even the French Dernier; if they’re even still alive, heard that blast go off this deep down in the building

He doesn’t remember the trip here or how or near or far it was - or where they are in the factory at all. All he knows is there’s windows in Zola’s lab and there’s grass and trees outside.

“Andy! There!” Bucky shouts, pointing at an exit door. Andrew turns, still looking wild. He tries to yank on the door to open it - it groans with his strength but doesn’t shift and he fumbles with Achter’s keys after. “Give them to me.” Bucky says, whose hands are more steady. He tries each key frantically - none of them fit. Andrew growls and tries to charge the door while Bucky tries them all again.

There’s guards rounding the corner.

“Leave it!” Andrew yells and grabs him by the shoulders, drags him off his feet bodily to the left. Bullets ricochet off the door right behind them. They keep running, turning nearly every corner they find, lost, just trying to get away from those following them.

Bucky thinks about the grass through Zola’s windows.

“What about a window?”

Andrew grabs his arm again and keeps running. Bucky yanks them both into an alcove in the shadow of two lights of an inner corridor. Guards run straight past them either side; both ways. Bucky’s panting with effort, trying to keep quiet, exhausted from the first exercise he’s done in who knows how long. He's almost sagging against the wall and his friend; Andrew's hands slide under both his forearms and press upwards to help firm him.

Andrew’s barely even winded. “We cannae stay--”

Bucky shushes him. A guard steps back into view, Bucky stabs him under the jaw and Andrew drags him into the alcove. The man would have lied to them if they asked for a way out. They search him, but he's only got a baton on him. The man drops to the floor by their knees, blood pooling under him and against the stiff fabric of their trousers. They need a moment just to pause and think; work out where they are; how to get back to an outer wall where they'll be a window. Bucky's panting is quieter, but still incensed; his weight drops towards the wall, and he nearly joins the dead guard beneath them. Andrew's hands, quick and sudden, are back in the same warm spots; so he leans his weight against the forearms under him instead.

"James--"

"m' sorry." He whispers, chest heaving; Andrew moves to take his full weight a moment longer. Maybe stopping wasn't the best idea. Bucky sighs out in thanks.

"W're nearly t'ere, Jay." He assures. "Nearly t'ere. We gonnae keep going."

Bucky nods against him. "I know. I know. m' sorry."

He feels Andrew shake his head above him, as if rebutting the unwanted apology. He presses his lips against the back of Bucky's bowed head, then leans down to speak into his ear. "You got this. We got this. Ti'gether."

He forces his weight away from Andrew and back on himself. "Together." He vows, just like Andrew did all those weeks ago.

Andrew squeezes his arms. "You got this." He reminds him at last. "We just gotta get out."

They check the way is clear both directions; moving silently along the edges of the walls; one after another; connected; hands on each other's forearms - then have to run again they realize a camera has focused and is following them. They dart out of sight and keep going. There's a shout and --Andrew shoves him sideways as the bullet spears between them. Bucky slides across the ground, skidding. Andrew throws his shiv - _sluice_; it tears through the guard's side, and he chokes, loosing his footing. Andrew leaves Bucky to run at him, knocking him to the ground. He yanks the knife out, turns and slashes deep across the inner thigh of the guard's partner - shredding apart the femoral artery. There's lots of spurting - enough to slip in; which is what the other guard does when he tries to get up and go for his dropped sidearm before Andrew finishes him. Andrew checks over his shoulder, turning to go for him if he needs to, but Bucky's already forced himself back up; right behind him.

He reaches for the man’s gun, Andrew tugs his arm away. “No time.”

“But I can shoo--”

“No time James - a window, like you said.” He pulls Bucky away before he can grab the pistol. 

_That’s nine, or is it ten now; or eleven or --- how many did Andy kill before he came for me?_

It’s morning. He can see the sun, and the rain pitter pattering against the glass.

“James!”

“I see it!”

They run for it and Andrew flings a metal trolley at the window mid-run. The glass smashes and clatters to the ground; _they already know we’re out, there’s no point hiding_. Bucky steps onto Andrew’s clasped hands as he levers him so he’s high enough to climb through. He catches his forearm on the glass - Andrew takes his hand when he's braced and balanced on the sill, and climbs vertically up the concrete wall.

They both stumble a little when they land and Bucky - Bucky feels soft blades of grass under his fingers and the rain in his hair. He looks down, up, then either side. The window he’s been dreaming about from the lab is six meters to their left - they’re in between the two buildings and the water tank at the edge of the compound. There’s a forest just past the fence.

“The trees, the trees.” Bucky says, pulling Andrew up this time, he's the only one still with his knife in his other hand. He doesn’t know where Achter’s keys have gone. Andrew, once he’s moving and not having an orgasm over the grass, easily out-paces him but they’re getting closer.

_Bang!_

Bucky yelps sharply and falls, blood spraying sprinkler-like in front and behind him. He hits the ground hard. He tries to shove himself up; one leg faltering as he cups the squirting hole in his thigh while the other slips in the already blood-slick mud.

He can’t get up.

“I’ve got ye.” Andrew comes out of nowhere - comes back - heaves him to his feet so he can carry him. “We’re getting out o’ toget Blood sprays like a shock wave all over his face. _No. No no no no no, no no no no no!_ He hits the ground hard a second time - on top of Andrew. _No no no no no no no no no!_ He’s covered in blood and brain tissue, feels fractured shards of skull bone in his hair. 

He shakes his friend frantically. “Andy. Andy, get up. Get up!”

He can see a pink mist hovering in the air around them; can’t see anything out of his right eye except a film of red.

“Andrew get up,” he begs, sobbing. “Get up you asshole, _get up._”

It’s over. He knows it’s over.

He latches onto Andrew’s slick shirt; if he’s going he’ll go with him. If they’re taking him back to the cell; then they’re taking the both of them.

“Andrew please.”

There’s German shouting behind him.

“_Please,_” he begs, fingers catching on green and red tags.

It’s over.

He makes a choice as they shove his head into the puddle of blood between Andrew’s neck and head and lock his hands behind his back.

If he closes his eyes: it’s early in the morning and they're hugging again for the first and last time.

“Please.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's here, it's finally happened. Hope you enjoyed the dramatics, let me know your thoughts. Now what's the next stage going to be?
> 
> Next chapter will be up in just over a week this time, as I'm away in Spain for a week so won't be able to post. And Gracias for all of your support over the last new chapters!


	8. PART 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is Barnes, Sergeant 32557038, Subject #63 and he is never getting out of here. He is Barnes, Sergeant and he can completely heal a simple bullet wound in four days; he has a dead pa, an unfaithful ma, three sisters and a best pal he’ll never see again; and he’s a widow.

BUCKY

_Blood sprays like a shock wave all over his face. No. No no no no no, no no no no no! He hits the ground hard a second time - on top of Andrew. No no no no no no no no no! He’s covered in blood and brain tissue, feels fractured shards of skull bone in his hair. Get up, please get up - he's not getting up. Neither are you. He starts crying, sobbing._

_“Andrew please.”_

_There’s German shouting behind him._

_“Please,” he begs, fingers catching on green and red tags._

He wakes. He's alone; sat up against the wall of the same stupid, awful, terrible cell; slumped against it; his head fuzzy and grey; his brain as thick as his tongue in his mouth. His right eye is swollen shut; his fingers - he thought were broken too; but maybe not - _or not anymore?_ Who knows? Who cares any more? He's so tired and so awful and so guilty. He should be.

His stomach aches from thirst and hunger, and from being cranked open again - the staples are fresh and his head pulses in the blend of fogginess he's residing in. They hit him in the same swollen eye again yesterday when they realized he was beginning to be able to see through it again. The collar is back on - if it was ever off, except now it's buckled tight enough to strain the skin; it hurts to swallow. It was punishment - for....for daring to dream of freedom.

So much for that.

Even Bucky doesn’t dream to think he’d survive a bullet to the brain, or heal from it, and Andrew had been given the strength trials of Zola’s experiments, not the resistance and healing. That was Bucky’s role in the strange limbo they’d lived in together. 

Zola’s still angrier than he’s ever seen him; the loss of his subject with the most potential, and, he told Bucky, had every member of that assault group responsible shot and buried in unmarked graves in retaliation.

_"You're not the only one whose paying for it, Sergeant. If you find some consolation in that."_

_Bucky blinks heavily, chapped lips open and slack. Shivers rack his body as the usual floods his system, he's so cold._

_"Ooh," Zola makes a mocking surprised sound; turns back to cock his head downwards at him laid horizonal on the table. "Nothing to say today? Now that is new."_

The cell is streamed with a beam of light from the window; though Bucky sits in the L; in the darkness. His eyes drift, open, closed; unfocused, open, closed, open - it's hard to...it's hard to do anything; to even think. Zola wants it that way, he guesses. He needs the body; not the thing that lives inside it, whoever they--_it_ is, or was. The cell is as silent as a mausoleum. Tears have stopped trickling down with each dull blink as he grew more and more dehydrated; but with each moment absent of noise he grows more empty and more mute.

Bucky has Andrew’s identity discs in his pocket, the red and the green. He pulls them out at night in the dark when the drugged darts they shoot him with have worn off, when he can’t see the colours, but can feel the imprints; the essentials facts of the life of Andrew McNair, from Paisley, Scotland.

_MCNAIR . A. R_

_1440638_

_BAP_

  
Tracing the _BAP_ in the nights, Bucky finds out Andrew was a Baptist, and his middle name began with _R_. He didn't know those things about his friend, if that was what they even still were to each other in the end. 

When he _can_ think, he’s unable to think of anything else; that, and the spray of blood and bone covering the side of his face and neck, pooling underneath them both. He dreams of it constantly too - he wants his ma and her piano back. He wants his ma back so so much, he'd give anything, his whole life, just to have her cup his face and kiss his nose; or rub his belly and tuck him in. They've patched up his arm and his leg - the bullet went through and though - and they've taken the cot in the cell away so he can’t make another knife. He doesn’t wash or wipe the blood away until they force him, and attacks them when they do, forcing them to drug him to oblivion the way he almost wants. He keeps the itchy shirt with Andrew’s dried blood on it as a macabre memorial to the companion who almost got to go home to his brother.

He hopes Joey knows how brave his brother was, right until the end, somehow.

. . .

  
STEVE

It’s true, she’s right, he doesn’t know what’s hit him.

Not until after, once he slips away after covering her with a blanket he finds in the dressing room closet. Josie naps on the couch. _It_ happened just over an hour ago, his first time. Steve can’t forget the feeling, both physically and introspectively. He slips his trousers back on and a jumper that’s over-large but still slightly too small for his shoulders. He wastes a whole two minutes trying to think of what to write to Josie in the aftermath of what they just did - of what he just lost.

_Thank you for tonight._

_I’ll be back later._

He writes in the end, knowing it’s not enough, and leaves it under the mirror with her lipstick. He slips outside, glances at the clock in the corridor - it’s nearly seven in the evening, and they don’t need to be out until nine. He has time - time for a walk and time to clear his head before he needs to go back and wake her.

He see’s Veronica and Ashley still milling around and they smile at him in greeting. He flushes, embarrassed, _do they know?_ They turn back to their conversation moments later, none the wiser to his and Josie’s escapade - for once it seems the woman has been subtle. He hopes it stays that way - doesn’t know what to do or how to act if they all knew - but his mind stalls on the idea of telling Josie to keep their soiree quiet, to not tell her friends. It goes against nearly all his opinions of what fellas should and shouldn’t be telling dames to do - but - but he’d really appreciate the gossip not going further than his dressing room.

He slips out the back and he’s forgotten his hat but it’s okay. He’s in Delaware and it’s dark. There’s a park not far from here - he saw it on the way in; thought about going there to sketch before they made their way to the port later in the week. Steve sits under a tree and listens to the evening sounds of a smaller city. He thinks about ice-skating, snow and Californian girls. She knew what she was doing, like Bucky always claimed he did, and Steve wonders how many Bucky Barnes’ she has in her past.

How many Agent Carter does, as inappropriate as the thought is.

Twenty four years of waiting for the right partner, through all the lonely nights and through all of his best friend’s teasing, and that’s it: over.

Gone.

He doesn’t regret it - definitively doesn’t regret what she did with her mouth and her legs and what she brought out as a part of him he didn’t know existed - _but._ He doesn’t regret who he did it with - Josie’s a great gal; beautiful and funny and confident and kind; kind about it most of all. She kept stopping, checking in with him, if he was okay; and he said yes every time. He doesn’t regret it - _but._ But there’s a small part of him that’s disappointed in himself. Disappointed that he gave it up so early -_ he didn’t, twenty four years he waited_ \- and that he didn’t hold on like he always said he would until marriage. 

He likes Josie; he really does - but it’s dark curled hair he sees, not red, when he thinks about slow dancing like Susie Maisel and Lucy Coulson. The same lipstick though.

Agent Peggy Carter is gone. 

She’s a professional; an Army woman in league with one of the most secret affiliations within the Allied Powers - and at war - _she was never at that army base to be your dream girl Steve Rodgers._

_She’s her own woman, and you’ll never see her again. Get over it, live your life - a better life than the one your used to - the life where dames throw themselves at you and you still don’t know what to do with them._ He forces himself to think. _Live that life - free of arrhythmia and deafness and asthma and enjoy, **appreciate,** this gift from God and science and stop wallowing in self pity._

_If this really is a gift from God though_, the other part of him thinks, _for a better life with a better body - then why does he feel more alone than ever before?_

. . .

  
He comes back to the theatre at eight-thirty to get his stuff and awkwardly shuffle in and wake Josie, but she’s gone when he slips in. She’s picked up her clothes from the floor and folded the blanket over the back of the couch. She’s written on the note Steve left her.

_No need to thank me, honey._   
_I’ll see you Tuesday on the boat._

There’s a red lipstick kiss over the corner of the ‘t’ in boat.

Steve feels incredibly guilty.

. . .

  
Senator Brandt claps him on the shoulder or as high as he can reach as he always does, and has his staff take thirty photos of them together outside the cargo boat due to take them to Europe. 

To the war.

He hasn’t spoken to Josie yet; had gone to the docks two hours earlier to escape the hotel walls closing in on him, but it turns out the Senator’s there doing interviews before they depart - and Steve walks straight into his unwitting trap.

He spins the company line, “Bond sales take a 10% bump in every state I visit and with the success of the films and the comics, let’s hope we can bring some moral to the troops as we’ve done for the American public.”

“Oh you will, son, I’m sure of it!” Senator Brandt laughs, slapping him again and calling for one more photo, this time while Steve holds an American flag to match his costume. _Wonder what he’d think if he knew the symbol of the American Propaganda machine was a socialist?_ Steve thinks to himself to bring out a sarcastic smile,_ then he really would be a true American joke._

_. . ._

(It’s late November, 1943. In Berlin, the Allied strategic bombing campaign is beginning to rack up heavy causalities; the day before the wreck of an opera house had made the American and European papers, and more homes are levelled on both sides. South of Rome, the heavy rain over the last week or so is delaying the Allied advance and the rest of the country is caught in the crossfire of the Allies and the Luftwaffe both. France is worse.

The first ever _Captain America at Sea_ comic was printed yesterday, to join in with the others, and Casablanca premiered today. The war, though Steve doesn’t know it yet, is more than half over.)

. . .

Josie links arms with him unexpectedly at the prow of the ship as he’s watching the waves. _This’ll be a long ten days_. He wonders if he’ll get seasick, he’s never been on a boat like this before. He doubts it, with the serum. Bucky wrote him that he threw up for the first five days when _he_ crossed the Atlantic, and lived off salted crackers while the other Sergeant in his squad laughed at him - until the guy ate some bad chicken and the roles were reversed.

_I guess karma isn’t a myth after all, Steve, who would have thought?_ Bucky had written in his third to last letter, while Steve was busy lying to him about being in Basic._ Though maybe Karma only exists on boats - in Poseidon's domain, not the almighty - it’s not like any of those assholes back at home got what was coming to them. What do you say to that?_

_I think your fists are what those assholes got coming to them, and that’s the only compliment I’m gonna give you. And Poseidon's domain?_ Steve had written, and underlined it so Bucky would read the scoff in the words; _come on pal, stop trying to turn me against God already, would ya, or I’ll tell Sister Joan._

_That’s playing dirty Steve,_ Bucky wrote back a month later. _I thought you were my friend, you traitor. Go back to Jersey and cry to Becca, seeing as the two of you are peas-in-a-pod now. Reckon maybe the sis’ is sweet on you, good luck - you’ll need it._

_Honestly. You’re as bad as each other,_ Steve had opened his next letter with, as though they were having on of their usual everyday conversations in letter form.

“Hi Steve.”

“Hey Josie.” He says quietly, shifting his feet. He’s probably as red as a tomato right now. 

Josie snorts at his face, which tells Steve he's right. “Honestly, what are you carrying on about now?”

Steve sighs awkwardly, nervously. “About the other night….”

“What about it? I liked your note.” She doesn’t sound sore about it. Steve opens his mouth to start a slew of apologies he has no idea how to phrase: for the note, for leaving, for Peggy Carter. She speaks before he can, “Did you have a good time?”

“Um,” Steve clears his throat, “I did.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, “You sure about that?”

“No--Yeah. I mean definitely. _Definitely_. It was,” he sighs at the memory, “it was great. Really great.”

Josie smiles gently, “Good. I’m glad.”

“Was it - was it good for you too?”

“It was.”

“Even though I didn’t---didn’t really know what I was---”

“You were a quick learner,” Josie winks at him, “I had a lovely time - your face in and of itself was great entertainment.”

Steve flushes. She laughs, elbowing him. “I’m only teasing you Steve,” she tells him, then repeats “I had a really nice time.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She leans up and kisses his cheek. “You’re going to make some lucky gal feel real special one day. I hope whoever you’re sweet on knows how swell you are.”

Steve pulls back to look at her in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say. She still has that gentle smile on her face, there’s nothing there to hint that she means any different.

“Josie,” he starts.

“Don’t you sweat it Steven Rodgers, I had a lovely time and you did too - which was important to me - and if you ever want any more practice,” she waggles her eyebrows, “then I’d be honoured. Just you make sure---” She pauses, then un-links their arms and turns him to face her directly. The sea breeze whips at her hair until it looks windswept and unkempt for the first time since Steve’s known her. She takes both of his elbows and looks him directly in the eyes. 

“Just _you make sure_ that you never forget how swell you are Steve, and_ never_ let anyone tell you that you’re not. You’ve got me, your pal, and your pal’s sister from the sounds of it in your corner - and your mama’s looking down from heaven and agreeing with me here - we want you to be _happy_. And I hope that maybe I helped a little in the here and now - and that you cheer up soon - because someone as sweet as you doesn’t deserve to be so sad.”

Steve smiles at her, grateful. “You’re a real swell girl Josie,” he says her own words back at her, because they’re true. She flicks her hair as if to say,_ I know._ “I had a great time.”

She kisses his cheek again, “I’ll see you inside?” She asks, turning to wander back in. Steve nods. “Don’t wait out here too much longer - any colder and your legs will turn into popsicles!”

He laughs at the familiar joke when she winks at him. He calls after her, “You Californian girls can’t handle the cold!”

BUCKY

He’s become the red-haired prisoner from a hundred years ago, the one that hid, curled up in the darkened corner and never spoke to anyone. The difference is, he has a tongue. He can talk but he doesn’t want to - doesn’t want to hear the voice of a reprehensible survivor. 

In a strange sense of self-realization, he feels like a widow; not a soldier whose comrade died in front of him, but a grieving widow mourning the loss of their partner. He hurts, like a pain in his chest that won’t leave, as bad as when his pa died - worse even. He didn’t see his pa’s brain splatter like an overripe tomato right next to him, onto him; only read the words ‘we regret to inform you.’

His pa had four children, a wife, a golden star, an empty casket and a real carved headstone that cost a whole month’s rent to remember him by. Andrew, his Andrew, has battered identity tags on a torn string in the pocket of a half-dead-half-human man whose still wearing his blood on his skivvies. That’s all.

He is_ Barnes, Sergeant 32557038, Subject #63_ and he is never getting out of here. He is _Barnes, Sergeant_ and he can heal a simple bullet wound in four days, completely in five; he has a dead pa, an unfaithful ma, three sisters and a best pal he’ll never see again; and he’s a widow.

The personification of him into the red-haired prisoner happens when they throw two fresh bloods in; one healthy, one sick, who have no idea what’s going on. Bucky starts laughing and can’t stop at the irony of it, right up until they get over their heart attacks and try to talk to him.

“What’s going on, man? What do they do to you in here?”

He turns away and closes his eyes, still laughing hysterically even when they yell at him, and rubs his finger over the ‘R’ of the green aluminium until he falls asleep and Zola calls for him again.

. . .

He always gives back Bucky’s dog-tags.

Zola doesn't know about Andrew's tags, but if he does, well then he doesn't take them at all. They stay in Bucky's pocket when Zola puts him back in the iron lung to see if he can speed the process up even more; and they burn right the way through the fabric; blistering and burning right the way through seven layers of skin and muscle; scarring him for life. Zola was right about that; but for the life of him, Bucky; when he numbly investigates the searing bleeding _hurt_ when he wakes and stops shaking; can't regret the burn. Now he has something else to carry with him; it's a kind of _hurt_ he feels won't ever heal properly.

. . .

  
“He gave me a bunch of shots, but that was it--”

“Like medicine?”

“I don’t know; they strapped me down for it, but apart from that it….it wasn’t that bad.”

Bucky starts laughing again, “Just wait,” he croaks; the first time he’s made a sound since he lost his voice in the iron lung two days ago. “You’re in hell, you’ll see.”

. . .

The new soon-to-be-dead-men are called Private Campbell and Private Harris, not that Bucky bothers to introduce himself.

. . .

Zola still measures him after every session; seems to come to the conclusion that yes, his _Vita-Kammer_ works and has triggered the yellow serum which has attached and become part of Bucky’s flesh, blood, and immune system, but it can’t trigger serum that he hasn’t been given yet. This is how he finally finds out what his machine does, that it’s been triggering and forcing the yellow serum deep into him until they become one single entity - he’s finally got the voltage and the dosage right - it’s why Bucky suddenly started healing so fast.

Achter was correct the day he died, when he said “Herr Doctor hatte Recht”. (“Herr Doctor was right.”)

Zola measures him because he’s looking for any physical changes - like Erksine’s, whatever that means. Except now that he’s not bothering to eat, or barely drink, even now they're allowing him food, he’s getting thinner not stronger. Zola decides to change that, and gives him a full bag of the green serum, clipping it to the tube in his elbow.

Apparently one of Zola’s other subjects - the monster - Bucky realizes, swelled up after Zola combined the green serums with the _Vita-Kammer_ into the biggest - almost inconceivable physical change Zola ever expected. 

“It was an accident, you see? I didn’t know it would have that effect.” Zola tells him, as he always does now; the pathetic lonely little man. The other ones in the_ ‘Vitalität Trial’,_ until himself (#Subject 63), just burnt up and died from the radiation, either from the voltage or an unstable serum. Zola hasn’t attempted the other combination again, doesn’t want to risk attempting it another time until he’s got a second viable subject of the _‘Vitalität Trial’_, which is what Private Harris is for - trying to replicate what he created in Bucky to take forward into the next step. At the end Andrew started physically changing, and he knows Zola knows that too - it’s why he was so angry when they shot #Subject 64. 

Andrew was right about the serum, even if he was wrong in thinking going back for Bucky was a good idea.

It buzzes like a hornets nest, (it’s the only way explain it) and the insects swarm into an unbeatable hoard whizzing through his blood and they_ stab stab stab_ until they penetrate his brain stem and invade, down every blood vessel; into his very thoughts. Everything turns to white noise, an old radio on the fritz, and Bucky listens and listens to the voices of the hornets as they whisper the secrets to heaven and hell. His body goes hot then cold then hot again, and his blood vibrates instead of burning from the venom until he’s bucking at the restraints, his heart pounding.

He wants to _hurt something._

Zola asks him next if it feels hot or cold when it goes in, and when Bucky answers both he hums like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard - it was just hot for Andrew, not cold, so he wonders what that means for him; if the two serums are fighting one another because he’s been cold every moment of everyday unless he’s coming out of the iron lung.

Zola asks him, “Do you feel good? Do you feel angry?” and he wants to laugh because he’s been to this movie, listened to this symphony before through Andrew’s words. 

The green serum burns all day, night and the day after, and when mixed with other cocktails he starts hearing voices in the white noise that belong to people he knows, makes him want to run to them - but he doesn’t hear the voice he wants. There’s no memory after death in the serum to tie it’s victims together. When Andrew doesn’t come for him - when he’s learnt his lesson that Bucky’s not worth the bullet to the brain - he begs for Steve in life and he begs for his pa in death. Zola tells him to stop whining, and orders him to, “Describe the sensation precisely.”

He tries, he tries so hard but it’s so loud and distracting he can’t get the words out when he’s not angry - so Zola has the guards hit him when he starts shouting gibberish instead. They threaten to take his tongue like they’ve done to so many others but before Bucky can respond Zola waves them off. 

“While it would be interesting to see if he can grow it back I need his answers for my data, he’s the only one whose ready for the next stage now.” _The only one after you idiots shot my other,_ is implied.

Zola has looked at him with a new kind of strange respect since he watched the video footage of their escape and realized Bucky killed five of the nine, or ten or eleven or whatever it was, that day.

“And that was before you were gifted with the alternative, second _Stehvermöge_n trial.” _The true gift would be death._ “That combined with your already enhanced immune system….” Zola looks purely gleeful, like the cat who ate the cake, if that’s the correct expression.

“Make a dame look that happy and maybe I’ll be more impressed.” Bucky croaks at him before he starts the day’s experiments.

. . .

"It will improve," Zola says sometimes, but never to Bucky. "I just need a bit more time."

When did he get here? Did he - did he even go back in the cell last night, or did he stay and sleep on the table? He's thirsty. Zola says something else to his assistant, some kind of dictation.

_What will improve_, Bucky wants to ask.

. . .

The spaces in between when he’s on the table and in the cell become less memorable, to the point Bucky forgets about them altogether. He and Campbell, the other one getting the green serum, are often shot with darts through the food slot of the door to keep them down when the guards enter, much to Harris’ shock the first time it happens while he’s still in the room. _You can say what you want, but these new motherfuckers aren’t as stupid as the ones whose heads Andy cracked like hard candy._

The serum’s kicked in for both him and Campbell in different but similar ways already - so they’ve learnt from their mistakes and are culling down their awareness and ability before they start getting as strong as Andrew was. The problem with that logic is; they used to do this to Bucky before the green serum when they didn’t need to: and his new mutated self recognizes the drug and recovers even quicker than usual to the point that it barely works at all - maybe finally choosing Bucky’s side. Though if the serums really were sentient and on his side then they would have let him die by now.

Still buzzed and feeling reckless from the day before, Bucky wonders how many guards he will have to kill to get them to shoot him, and pretends to pass out when the dart catches him in the kidney. 

Campbell and Harris ignore him like he and Andrew used to do to the ginger - they get the message in a way Andrew never did in that he wants to be left alone. They back up to the wall ready for the men to come in when the slot slides open and the rifle muzzle appears - and hold their hands up like normal men do when guns are pointed at them.

Bucky stops tapping Choplin’s _Berceuse_ against his leg with one hand and carving_ ‘Barnes & McNair were here’_ into the wall with the other, and ‘sleeps’. 

They clip the pole onto his collar while their new ‘big one’ gets him under the arms. He twists. Then kicks. The third goes down with the hit to the solar plexus and he slams his right forearm into the pole attached to his throat. He feels the bone in his arm fracture down the middle but it breaks and he uses the broken end to stab it’s holder. He elbows the big one in the face hard enough to make his head snap back and on the recoil pulls off the guy’s mask and hood in one. He punches him again at the angle and placement he knows will break the guy’s nose and send the bone stabbing up into his brain.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Campbell yells.

The man falls without a sound, and Bucky pulls the knife from his belt as the man hits the floor. Campbell, the smartest of the two newbies takes the opportunity to shove Harris so they can run while they have the chance. 

He throws the knife with his left hand and it hits one of the squad that has started running towards the cell.

“Shit!” Harris yelps, voice cracking, head rocking back to glance at him when the knife strikes deep into the throat of the guard whose electrical baton was an inch away from the man’s ribcage.

Campbell manages to wound two of them - one seriously - before they’re overwhelmed. Bucky stands in the cell with bodies and one still choking guard around him - dares them to shoot him.

_“Do it!_” He screams, Andrew’s blood still under his fingernails.

“Nicht schießen! Schießen Sie nicht auf diesen Gefangenen!” (“Do not shoot! Do not shoot that prisoner!”) shouts Zola’s new, actual medical, assistant. They ignore him and cock their weapons.

“Go on, shoot me! Do it!”

“Nicht schießen! Er ist Herr Doctor's,_ schießen ihn nicht!_” (“Do not shoot! He is Herr Doctor's,_ do not shoot him!”_)

“Feuer einstellen!” (“Hold your fire!”) Zola’s sharp, for once commanding, voice orders and some of them hesitate. He’s Zola’s most successful subject now; they know what happened to the last assault team that didn’t hold their fire.

_Zola won’t let you die, not on your terms, only on his_. Bucky snarls and runs forwards. One of them shoots and he ducks sideways, bullet skinning his shoulder and somehow - he doesn’t know how - he yanks the gun from his hands and pistol whips him with the barrel. He shoots another in the arm, the snaps the muzzle at Zola's head right as the new Lieutenant shoves a super-charged baton into his back.

_Shock, frazzle, electric-bang! Ow ow ow hurt hurthurthurt - black!_

  
He wakes up on the table.

“That was a nice try, Sergeant you won’t get that chance again.” Zola says with no bullet hole in him.

He locks him in a new, smaller cell on his own. There’s no window in this one, only darkness.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the Second Act begins after a week in the sun for me, hope everyone's liking where this is going, as always let me know what you think in the comments. The question is did anyone spot and check off another one of the song lyrics in the summary from Part 5 and 6.
> 
> For anyone who does, I will reply to as many of them as I can. And I'd like to thank my most expressive reader RoisinDubhCosplay for all of the lovely comments they've given me since I first posted, as well as everyone else. From now on I'll likely be posting longer chapters every Thursday, though I may add a few others in if a shorter chapter occurs naturally.
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> BRITISH DOG/INDENITY TAGS : While American 'dog tags' were made from steel, and are still very much a similar design as used today, in World War II the British version was very different. They were more like identiy discs, one red circle and one green octaagon, but with similar information on them to the USA's. If a solider was found dead then you would recover the red disc which was more easily accessable and leave the green on the body. Here's a reference photo if anyone's interested: https://gradiamilitaryinsignia.com/home-front/905-ww2-british-army-dog-tags-surname-hagger-.html
> 
> POSEDIEN: Greek God of the Sea and Earthquakes, but mostly the Sea.
> 
> VITA-KAMMER: translates to Vita Chamber. This is the machine Zola uses on Bucky that he calls the 'iron lung.'  
VITALITAT TRIAL: translates to Vitality Trial. This is the trial involving the yellow serum, which effects the immune systems and healing.  
STEHVERMOGEN TRIAL: translates to Stamina/Endurance Trial . This is the trial involving the Green Serum, which effects the muscles and strength etc. Andrew was given this, and from this chapter Zola begins to start giving it to Bucky too.


	9. PART 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He saw the date on the assistant's clipboard earlier, the 9th of November, 1943. He’s been in this factory for fifty-nine days, and in this lab for for fifty-one days but it feels like his whole life.
> 
> He longs for his pa taping his knuckles his up and his sisters’ bitching. He longs for Steve’s never ending rants about Norman Thomas, “I’m telling you Buck, if he makes it to office - the difference it’ll make for the working classes and civil rights is just - you just don’t understand!” and for his Great Aunt’s piano and the smell of his ma’s soap over his shoulder. He longs for what he and Subject #64 did in the dark; the night before they should have died together.

BUCKY

The idea of faces become a bizarre faraway concept when he can’t see his own, or any other cellmates’, or the guards real faces behind those dark goggles. He supposes that’s the point - the only face he see’s regularly is Zola’s until it becomes the only one he actively recognizes.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been in the dark hole since Zola first threw him in here, a day, a week, a month - time is also a bizarre faraway concept. There’s no point carving lines in the walls to mark the days when he can’t see them or when he doesn’t have someone else to tell him when he’s missed a couple. Andrew once spent a whole hour, when time meant something to him, obsessing over the four extra lines Bucky had carved in, because he didn’t remember them - and then he forgot that he forgot so Bucky managed to get some sleep that night after all. There are no days and nights here, only darkness and lab-time, which he spends more and more time in; sometimes three times in one cycle like a yo-yo. He knows this because Zola’s wearing the same tie.

On that day; the same day; Zola takes note of his dark, pigmented urine; and taps his cheeks - side to side - several times, making his head rock and flop. He observes the disorientation and drowsiness his drugs are not responsible for for once. He feels at Bucky's chapped lips, parting them; and pads against his flaky lacklustre skin; almost massaging where he's beginning to break-out around his beard and scalp. He diagnoses dehydration, and tells Bucky off like a school child for not drinking the water they so generously give him. _You drug the water you give me,_ he thinks back blearily, eyes dropping,_ or at least I think you do._

He does something to Bucky's belly again, cutting, pinching, injecting; who knows - "another tube," Zola says, _oh, like I don't already have enough. Thanks so much._ "Directly to the organ - we will find another route if you refuse to use the one God has given you." He says.

Bucky croaks out a laugh,_ what would you know about God and all things right and holy?_

Zola doesn't deign him an answer to the silent spiteful question, he merely ignores what was supposed to be sarcasm in laugh form, coming out more of a crack of air if anything. Instead Zola floods his body through his stomach-tube-port with water, several times; overnight on the table. He does the same nearly everyday. Bucky is disgusted at the feeling, but he feels much better. Dammit.

They bring him into the lab when one of the other prisoners is already in there, and his is the first face he’s seen since Zola’s in what feels like an age. He knows Harris and Campbell exist locked away in his old cell but he can’t remember what they look like - doesn’t think he’d recognize them if he saw them again. He thinks this might be one of them, who probably looks the same aside from the beard and the syphilis rash, but the entire time Bucky spends staring at him he seems like a different man. 

He spends the next terror-stricken cycle of darkness trying to remember Becca’s face, then Steve’s face, then Colette’s face - and when he has their vague face shapes and expressions held in his memory he draws them out in lucid hallucinations where they talk about eyeglasses. They start listing all the different kinds until the three of them are arguing about where half-moons should go in the pro’s and con’s table they’ve drawn up on the back of a cereal packet.

He’s so hungry. It's his own fault, because he's still not eating; not really.

Of the three of them he doesn’t know which is which - only knows which one’s Becca by how much the hallucination swears.

Then they all put on the dark ugly goggles the guards wear and it startles Bucky so much he throws his wash bucket at them until he’s sitting wet in sudsy water.

. . .

He spends the next cycle surrounded by dogs of all different breeds, some with wings and some with beaks and scales and that’s entertaining at least in that he has to guess which are real and which aren’t.

The answer is: none of them are real, but he likes the mangy street mutt with a cat’s bushy tail the best.

. . .

He starts...he's not eating, but he's not getting thinner anymore. If anything, he's carrying a bit more weight than he was; he can still feel his wrist bone and collarbone when he pokes it, and may be able to see it if he had light but - they don't feel as prominent. But he's not...he's not eating; so how is he putting on weight? He blames the tube-port in his stomach Zola uses to flood his system into hydration, it must be that; because he doesn't remember eating. He doesn't. He remembers specifically _not eating _by his own choice; to starve or because he's just too tired; well, he wouldn't be able to tell you. He_ does_ remember them kicking his full plate of food at him when they opened the door and it was uneaten; when in fact there was four plates there; the oldest already going mouldy in the infested room. 

They were very angry; one of them held him down and another had taken a handful of mash and shoved it in his mouth, and he spat it right back in his face. They beat him, mash still splattered on one of their masks - and then _something-something_ happened, then the collar clicked and they carried him out. They talked to Zola, who told them _something-something_, and then nothing. His throat hurt after, and his bones ached, but then they always ache. But he spat the mash back up, he didn't eat; he didn't. So how is he--wait, how long ago was that now?

Where, _when_ is he?

The tube-port. In his stomach. Right - that's the culprit. He's already going to miss all that free hydration during lab-time, he always feels so much better after, but sacrifices sacrifices. He fiddles and fiddles, then pulls it out - he presents the medical apparatus stuck in the middle of the carrot mash for the fuckers in the morning. He adds in a smiley face made from peas underneath it.

The guards are angry again. Zola is amused. Zola puts the apparatus right back in.

And then he... how long ago was that? _Where, when_ is he?

The mangy street mutt comes to sit with him again. He's thirsty.

. . .

Zola tells him he’s _stabil_ _und lebensfähig_ and he’s progressing nicely, and Bucky feels like he accomplished something.

  
Zola also tells him Harris is dead, which makes sense, seeing as he must be the faceless corpse he doesn’t recognize on the table next to him. Zola seems confused, because he used the same voltage and dosage on him that worked on Bucky, but he never recovered from the sickness or the radiation.

“Guess that’s what happens when you combine syphilis and Typhoid Fever and Chlorea,” Bucky says, because that’s exactly what Zola did. His blitzed out brain says, “Maybe you need to keep up the serums and the steroids for longer so the body gets used to it before you go for the big finale. Like you did with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zola scoffs, but later Bucky see’s him doing exactly that with Subject #67 and having success.

“Told you,” Bucky boasts from his table. Zola gives him a dirty look and a sedative for his intelligence - which is nice of him.

. . .

He thinks Campbell’s still alive, but at the same time he could also be the one on the trolley in the corridor ready for the furnace. That could also still be Harris if they haven’t gotten round to him yet.

He doesn’t know.

. . .

His favourite dog has puppies; each tail bushier than the last and he names all of them - calls the ugliest one Becca so she’ll throw a book at him so he can read it in the dark. He wishes he was blind, so he could read _Great Expectations_ in Braille. No wait, what is he thinking, he hates _Great Expectations_ \- it's super duper boring, no matter how good Charles Dickens is. He wants a Flash Gordan - but, that's mostly pictures and he can't see - so useless. Olaf Stapleton then. He wishes he was blind so he can read Olaf Stapleton in Braille - there, that's better.

One of the puppies eats a smiley face of peas floating in the soup next to him. He leans his head against the wall and watches the puppy's tongue lick up the soup inexpertly, flicking it across the floor and all up it's nose. Bucky smiles in amusement. He's always wanted a dog like his Aunt and Uncle had, but they had a bigger house with a bigger yard; and dogs need to be free to run. He feels sorry that all of these are stuck in here with him.

A few hours later he goes to slurp the soup and it's gone, the plate is empty._ Oh._ Those puppies must have been hungry.

. . .

He realizes he's begun forgetting things. He may have been for a while, but he can't remember, so he can't know for sure.

It’s small at first - no big revelation or panic like with the faces he doesn’t recognize - just small things, like when did they replace the port in his elbow or his waste bucket and _when did he throw up? _Why does he feel sick when he sees smiley faces made from peas, why does he sometimes come back to himself sat in a **chair**, not a table, that isn't in the lab but somewhere else; tied up and head strapped right the way back. When that happens,_ why are his cheeks wet and why does his throat pulse like---_

_Something catches, his body convulsing, gagging--where, when is he? Who was Colette? Who was, what do, how, should, what? Who is Subject #63 - Subject #63 is him._

It takes a couple more days and more than a couple of sessions with short recovery times after the revelation to realize it started when Zola first used Subject #64’s machine on him - the one that closes around the left side of his face and makes his muscles twitch. 

Zola’s assistant asks, “What was the picture I showed you before?” in his Austrian accent. And then, “What kind of animal was it? What kind of gun was it?”

Then it clicks. _Subjects #64's machine; memory, forgetting, yes. Oh dear. Oh no_.

The questions get more and more specific and more and more helpful but Bucky still can’t remember if it was a picture of a beaver or a bear or a cat or a elephant because he’s never seen an elephant or a beaver or a bear in real life before. He starts laughing mid Sergeant in deja vu at the deja vu of it, knowing he’s done it before. He wonders if the red-haired prisoner would have laughed at the familiarity of the familiarity if he could - if his story was the same story as Bucky’s just two months earlier.

He saw the date on the assistant's clipboard earlier, the 9th of November, 1943. He’s been in this factory for fifty-nine days, and in this lab for for fifty-one days but it feels like his whole life.

He longs for his pa taping his knuckles his up and his sisters’ bitching. He longs for Steve’s never ending rants about Norman Thomas,_ “I’m telling you Buck, if he makes it to office - the difference it’ll make for the working classes and civil rights is just - you just don’t understand!”_ and for his Great Aunt’s piano and the smell of his ma’s soap over his shoulder. He longs for what he and Subject #64 did in the dark; the night before they should have died together.

He presses his restrained wrist against his hip as much as he can until his fingers press against the mysterious ‘R’ through the fabric of his pocket’s pocket. 

_The Richard, Robert, Ronald, Raymond, Rodger, Russel, Robin, Ross, Romeo, Rodney, Randall, Rubin, Rowan_ question quietens the hornets in his head - distracts from the _ssswisnh_ energy powering up behind his skull. It doesn’t distract him from his twitching cramping muscles after but Bucky’s long ago stopped believing in miracles. 

He can’t remember the words of the Hail Mary, or what happened to the Israelites after they crossed the sea, or how many_ O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour’_s he needs to recite to atone for murdering a man. He thinks the point is that you can’t atone for that kind of thing - not even with final confession. He does remember the hot voltaic energy he feels when the green serum slides home in his arm or drip drips from the bag above his head, and how it excites his body in all kinds of ways as much as it rejects it.

Sometimes, on the come-downs which are thirty to ninety percent worse than the iron lung depending on the day, he wishes for the second machine because while it’s awful when it happens it means he’ll either forget the day’s work or he’ll pass out so he doesn’t have to feel it. 

He understands why his friend ate the rat now.

“What was on the picture I showed you?”

“A donkey,” he says even though this time he knows it was a tree. “Clark Gable,” even though it was a tank. “Mrs Coulter’s Peach Pie,” even though it was a banana.

. . .

The assistant takes him at his word but Zola knows him better than that and rips the results from the clipboard and puts one too many pinching staples in his body than he needs to on the next cycle. He takes the tube-port out, and Bucky goes very thirsty again. _No, give it back._

_. . ._

_"I'll eat. I'll drink. I will, I promise. I'll eat now , anything you give me - just please don't _

. . .

Sarah, his favourite companion, likes to sit next to him and lean into his ribs until she unbalances them both and he falls on his side. Her pups are old enough to be weened, and they run around his feet and whine when their brothers and sisters win at play fights. It brings Bucky a small amount of joy to watch them, while Sarah; the best mother, watches him watch them with a keen eye as Bucky scratches behind her ears. He feels like her pup sometimes too, when he’s so upset and so tired from the come-downs and the vomiting, and she pads over and licks his face until he starts smiling again.

The first time she speaks with her namesake’s voice he just about has a fit, and she licks his scraggly cheek until he’s calmed down and tells him he needs to wash the blood off his shirt and skivvies properly, or he’ll get an infection.

“No I won’t,” he replies, defensive about the blood, “I’ll heal before any infection starts;” and pulls out a new staple in his stomach to prove it. 

She looks at him with an unimpressed expression, like she used to when he was thirteen and twitches her nose -_ when did she get whiskers?_ \- says, “James Barnes, what young lady will want you when you smell and look like that?”

“Thought it was my foul mouth that was going to scare them off, not my face.” He retorts and she turns her back on him and makes all the puppies go with her.

He’s never felt more betrayed.

. . .

They start taking him to a room filled with old pallets, cabinets, tables, chairs and cameras and he thinks he’s supposed to break things. He feels like a bull in a china shop, for some reason, even though he’s flesh and bone and not a two-thousand pound cow and the room is nearly as big as Zola’s lab. They lock him behind thick bars, and order something in clipped German he doesn’t bother to listen to. 

There’s bloodstains on the threshold of the door and around the bars, stained deep into the concrete so it won’t come out no matter how much the Krauts scrub it. He wonders what happened, how many men died here, why the stains look like German blood and why he feels so vindicated when he looks at them.

He smashes three cabinets and six pallets, his head pounding and the hornets buzzing - he feels_ great_ \- and does what the Krauts want him to do without even realizing it. There’s a small clock on the wall and he throws it hard enough to crack the observation screen when he tries and fails to read the time.

It’s a long cycle but he’s still pumped; Zola gave him two doses today to track his endurance and how long the best - or worst - symptoms of the serum last. They shoot him with a dart, a new sedative; stronger than the last through the bars and he wakes up on the table again as he usually does. Zola switches on his big circular surgical light, shines it on his face until he flinches from the brightness. He’s not used to light anymore.

“Turn it down, you motherfucker.” He slurs, tongue still thick, while the insects buzz at the back of his throat. He keeps thinking if he opens his mouth the hoard will come out in a swarm, like the Egyptian plague, and eat Zola instead of the crops until all that’s left is his stupid little spectacles and white coat. He opens his mouth again to let them out -_ they’re coming this time, he swears_ \- and Zola pours water past his lips.

He’s so grateful and thirsty he forgets about his plague and gulps it down until it stops. He keeps his mouth open, like a baby bird waiting for more, but Zola puts a familiar mouth guard between his teeth instead. He wheels the new machine over his head and plugs it in, checks the wires and ports - slides the restraints under his jaw and the blue light piece down over his left eye and forehead and ear. He whines; he doesn’t like light anymore - especially when it’s stabbing him in his retina and making his head fuzz out until he’s trapped in his own fitting body.

. . .

What, where, when is he?

. . .

“Are you ready to combine the green stuff with the iron lung again yet?” Bucky asks him on an easy day, when all he has to look forward to is needles and measurements and he can’t be bothered with _Barnes, Sergeant 32557038. _

Zola’s sat at his desk, taking notes, and Bucky has to ask him louder a second time until he hears him. Zola hums from his desk; he knows ‘the iron lung’ is what Bucky calls his _Vita-Kammer._

”Not yet.” He answers, and Bucky hears his pen dip into the ink pot beside his notes before he goes back to them. “I am still encountering the same problem; I need at least two viable subjects so I don’t waste one of them if it has the same effect.”

“Shame,” Bucky says casually, his arms itchy. “Would have been fun to watch one of those monsters rip themselves off the table to swash you like a grape. _Swiisshh._” He makes the sound effect for good measure.

Zola’s pen stops and Bucky can feel his eyes on the bottom of his chin from where he’s sat at his desk. His assistant drops something on the other side of the room. 

The scribbling starts back up again, “You know Sergeant, most of my subjects don’t talk as much as you.”

“Most of your subjects keep dying,” Bucky retorts, “But not me.”

Zola harrumphs in agreement, “Yes, Sergeant,_ but not you.”_

. . .

  
Campbell is still alive - he was right. The two of them pass each other in the corridor, clipped collars on them both as Bucky is dragged by the armpits, dart in his neck, on the way back from the room with the bloodstains. Campbell looks at him for a long time as they pass, pupils blown and straining against the guards as he goes for his turn.

He’s a lot bigger than Bucky - and he doesn’t think it’s from better food. Bucky eats now; he throws up afterwards often enough - especially when he binges, but he hasn’t put on muscle from just eating and he knows there’s only so many push-ups you can do in his old cell. _Huh, I guess Zola isn’t failing with all of his subjects after-all,_ he thinks. Bucky’s not the only success. 

He wants to ask Zola why Campbell is getting physically bigger, more muscled, than him when they’re on the same trial now and why it’s happening quicker with him than it did with Subject #64. He doesn’t in the end; doesn’t need to - he remembers his thoughts about his hot and cold flushes - about both serums fighting each other in his one body. 

He’s stronger and faster and he dented a iron bar the other cycle so he knows Zola’s green _Stehvermögen_ trial is working, but he’s not swelling up with muscle like Campbell is. 

He thinks Zola’s come to the same conclusion when he stops measuring him and instead starts taking vials and vials of Bucky’s blood and spending hours looking at them under a microscope.

. . .

  
Sarah’s back and has forgiven if not forgotten, and she curls up by his feet and whines when he lies on his back and feels along his belly to start pulling out the new staples again. She bites his hand and tells him she and the pups will leave again if he pulls out another one so he stops. Little white Stevie the runt is curled up on his chest and he doesn’t want Stevie’s mama to wake him because of Bucky’s bad behaviour. Sarah also plays dirty, because she knows his weaknesses and will use them against Bucky - which is a little malicious if you ask him.

“I’m firm but fair,” she says to answer his thoughts, then snaps, “I said stop James!”

“I’m not James.” He says.

“You’ve always been James, you foolish boy. To me, to your mama, to----”

“I’m not James.” 

Sarah sighs, “Bucky---”

“I’m not Bucky either.” He contradicts dully, and taps _Berceuse_ against the grimy floor again. Sarah says nothing. “I’m Barnes, Sergeant 325570--”

“You are not, Bucky Barnes!” Steve’s voice snaps out loud, somewhere by his left ear. He jumps up, stumbling, swats at his ear and spins to find Steve but he can’t see him in the dark. 

“Steve?” he calls out hesitantly, then blinks, hand on his chest because_ where did Stevie go?_ He was sleeping right here. Bucky’s sure of it, stroking the warm patch leftover from the sleeping pup, laying over his beating heart. 

“Stevie?” He calls for the pup, “Georgie? Winnie?” and then the others, even the ugliest, “Becks?”

He can feel the walls closing in, the darkness so encompassing that his eyes will never adjust. He tries to push back the hot tears burning behind his lids; fails and wraps his arms around himself. He whines, starting to weep again. “Stevie? Sarah I---”

“I’m right here James,” Sarah says, her bushy tail brushing against his leg. Pure relief bursts out of him and he gasps out a sob, drops to his knees again as Sarah buts her head against his pinched stomach, rubs against his scarred itchy arms. 

“Sarah. Sarah, please. _Please don’t go_. Please don’t go, I’ll stop, just don’t go.” 

She pushes him back with her paws and spins in a circle to get comfy, and he curls himself around her as tightly as he can. “You really need to wash, James.” She says after a minute.

“I know,” he murmurs back quietly, “but I don’t want to lose that part of him.”

He falls asleep until the next cycle curled around Sarah the mother mutt and her litter, her bushy tail tickling his nose. He dreams, he thinks, but can’t remember what about.

. . .

  
Sarah’s gone.

He jolts at the sudden emptiness and the coldness that comes rushing in the circle of his bare arms, and looks up, squinting in the sudden brightness. A dark silhouette is stood in the doorway, back lit by the buzzing bulbs. The last couple of hornets buzz in response to the sound -_ is it time already?_

Sarah’s stood in front of him, hackles raised, growling at the guard in the doorway.

“What are you doing?!” He hisses at her in panic. She normally shoos her pups into the corner to avoid the danger like a good mother would. 

What is she _thinking?_

“Auf die Fube!” (“On your feet!”) The silhouette says, hand tightening on the handle of his baton - they don’t carry guns anymore, not these ones anyway, so Bucky and Campbell don’t try to shoot anyone else. Sarah bristles and bares her teeth like a mama bear, makes herself as big as she can - bushy tail ramrod straight and _huge._

“Sarah get back!” He hisses at her, crawls onto his knees to follow the orders. “Your puppies Sarah!” He reminds her, “You’ve got to protect your pups!”

“Halt den mund! Ich sagte, auf die Beine kommen!” (“Shut up, I said get on your feet!”)

She cants her head to look at him for less than a moment, and her eyes are the fiercest he’s ever seen them; on both their faces. She says, growl building deep in her chest, “_I am protecting my pup.”_

At the sound of the baton charge she grows three times her size and launches herself forward at the enemy.

“No!” Bucky screams, darting forward helplessly.

A kick. A backhand. A baton strike. Sarah and he yelp as one, and he hits the floor in the spotlight of the doorway, face pulsing while his muscles spasm.

Sarah slams into the cell wall with a deafening crack. She slides and slumps lifelessly to the ground and shrinks to her original size as she dies. He stares at her lifeless little body, ribcage caved in; stain of red on her sandy fur under her head.

They slam him into the ground, three of them, and he stares at Steve’s dead mama. “No, no,” he cries before they shock him into unconsciousness.

. . .

  
When he wakes, he’s in the bloodstained room and he knows he’ll never see Sarah or her puppies ever again - knows he as good as killed her too.

“Hey.” Someone croaks, “Barnes, isn’t it?”

He turns his head and blinks at the muscled man in rotting clothes across from him.

“At least, that’s what your tags said. I looked. Sergeant Barnes - didn’t know you were a Sergeant when you were in the cell with us.”

He doesn’t recognize him.

“It’s Campbell.” The man says.

“Right.” 

“We were in---”

“No I know, I know we were.” He replies, it starting to come back to him. “I just didn’t recognize you,” he then admits, because_ why not?_

“Yeah I know,” the guy grimaces, looking down on himself. “I don’t exactly look like I used to - some would say it’s an improvement but-” The guy looks away, fist tightening until his veins stand out, “-but nothing that sick bastard does is an improvement. _God_!” He shouts at the end and Bucky watches him warily, eyes glancing at the spot of red on the inside of his elbow, his slowly widening pupils. Why is he in here with him?

He checks his own elbows, but it’s hard to tell with the port Zola put in to stop his veins collapsing. There’s no residue as there usually is; Zola’s green serum has grown consistently thicker.

“I think Harris is dead,” Campbell growls, “he hasn’t come back to the cell in ages.”

Bucky glances up at him then keeps checking the rest of his usual injection sites. “He is.”

“And how the fuck would you know?”

“I saw him.” Bucky tries to pull the reactionary annoyance out of his voice as he checks the staples on his stomach. There’s a buzzing near his left ear, annoying and persistent until he starts swatting at it. The side of his neck is burning. He touches it and like a flood opening up he starts to hear familiar insects.

“Surprised you’re talking to me now,” Campbell continues, standing and harshly shoving a rogue cabinet out of his way. There’s not that many left now. “As far as you were concerned we could fuck off and go to hell before - what’s changed now, huh?”

“Nothing!” Bucky snaps back, standing himself and spinning in a circle. He doesn’t trust this quiet, or the hornets - _did Sarah know something he didn’t?_

“Fuck off, you coward.” Campbell snarls at him, his anger building like a wave, “You never cared about us!”

_Why would I_, Bucky bites back; hands starting to shake with the rising energy. He’s never been alone with anyone when he’s been hopped up like this before - not unless he’s been tied down. “Gave you that chance to run, didn’t I? It’s not my fault you screwed it up.”

“Screwed it up?!” Campbell scoffs furiously and throws a drawer from the cabinet at him in one swing. Bucky ducks, his blood starting buzz with narcotic energy. “You didn’t do that to let us escape - you did it to get them to shoot you! I heard ya, you pathetic coward---what kind of solider are---”

“Soldiers! If you would!” Zola’s voice comes over the tannoy above them. “My experiment does not require your egos or petty arguments - that is the only warning I’ll give you. Now I am going to give you a series of tests under the same conditions to measure and compare your results------”

Bucky stops listening, _who is this fucking guy?_ He snarls instead, picks up an oak side table and flings it against where he knows the reinforced observation deck is. Zola falters for a second over the tannoy as the wood splinters, then starts up confidently again, “I have given you both identical dosages----”

He doesn’t hear what else the doctor says - Campbell lets out a scream of rage and tackles him clear across the room. 

Zola’s voice cuts off.

Campbell grabs at his leg, fingers clenched tight and flips him so he lands on his back, spittle flying everywhere. Bucky groans in pain, coughing, and darts his head at the last second.

“You never cared!” Campbell screams, his eyes wild; face ugly with anger. The concrete cracks into a crater under his fist by Bucky’s ear. “You never cared!”

He aims a fist again at Bucky’s head who kicks him, getting his knee up so Campbell’s swing goes wide as he grunts. He snarls at Bucky, not unlike how Sarah did, and slams his head into the concrete before Bucky can stop him and goes for his throat. Hands close around his windpipe, a mountain sits on his chest. 

His vision whites out like someone’s hit a switch and sound is gone; it doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist just like Sarah, Georgie, Winnine, Becca, Stevie, Lils and Jenna didn’t. The only thing that exists is the pressure over his throat.

He’s choking when he comes back to himself, Campbell pressing down on top of him until Bucky feels like his neck is about to fracture.

_He’s going to kill me. The guy’s out of control._

He tries to kick him again, anywhere he can, but Campbell’s moved up and trapped his legs - he can’t breathe he can’t breathe - he can’t--------

His left arm snaps up from Campbell’s wrist around his throat and he punches him. It’s the wrong angle and Campbell doesn’t even grunt - so he takes a note from the guys own book and goes for the neck. Campbell cuts off whatever he’s yelling when Bucky chops him with the side of his hand in the throat, bucking against him. He chokes for a moment, the mountain of a man, and his grip loosens a little so Bucky tries to slam one of his arms free to get traction.

_You can’t breathe, you can’t breathe. He’s gonna’ kill you, he’s gonna’ kill you. _

_You want to die but not like this._

_Not like this._

His other scrabbling hand catches on a table leg. He snaps it clean off and cracks it across the side of Campbell’s head until it splinters. The growls cut off and the enemy cries out, his grip finally slackening and Bucky gasps in relief.

There’s a wooden splinter pierced deep into the enemy’s eyeball -_he doesn’t know pain like you do - show him._

Now that he has traction Bucky twists himself and punches the enemy in the ribcage until he hears something crack and he’s free. He keeps moving, half climbing up the man’s side until he’s half on his shoulders. He get hold of either side of his head, goes to snap his neck clean in two.

He slams back into the ground on his side as Campbell manages to flip him off and throws him into a cabinet. He gasps, coughing; winded.

“You’re dead! You’re dead!” The enemy screams and charges him again - blind in one eye and blood running down his face. Still winded on the floor Bucky darts clumsily to one side. They’re different sizes,_ the enemy’s stronger and you’re smaller but you can be just as fast, like Steve is_ \- and kicks him in the side of the knee, like he feels he’s done before. This time, the enemy’s entire knee joint dislocates and he goes down screaming.

The tannoys on - Zola’s shouting orders - guards are coming.

Bucky cracks another chair against the small of the enemy’s back to keep him down and goes for his neck again. He can’t even feel his own throat from where it has almost completely closed up, hand-prints bruised deep. 

It’s not as much of a fight as a struggle - both of them too close to one another, and too angry to throw the proper punches Bucky knows how to do. The hornets are so loud and his hearts pumping so hard he doesn’t even feel it when the enemy cracks him in head so there’s blood in his eye as he tries to dislodge him. He’s grabbing and scrabbling at Bucky’s arms so much Bucky can’t get a firm grip on the guy’s jaw, and then the enemy grabs him under the armpit to flip him again. Bucky kicks him backwards in the diaphragm to try and stop him. It doesn’t work, so he lets his balance go and uses the momentum to send them both to the ground instead. 

The enemy goes to gouge his eyes out and Bucky grabs a broken shard of wood the size of a baseball bat, remembers the feel of a sharpened bed-pole in his hand.

He does it before he thinks about hesitating and drives it deep into enemy’s chest until it comes out the other side.

Campbell’s good eye sparks then goes glassy. He chokes, and coughs; blood and spittle splatter across Bucky’s face and chest like Andrew’s brains did. He slumps backwards and hits the ground, still choking on the blood bubbling out of his mouth.

Bucky’s angry high goes off like a switch. 

_Shit, shit. _

He scrambles on top of Campbell and tries to plug the front hole but the wooden shaft is there and the damage is already done.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Bucky rants, grabbing at him helplessly until the light goes completely out in the soldier’s face. 

_He’s so young_, Bucky’s mind screams as his mouth mumbles, looking down on the unshaven face, unblemished by anger, of an eighteen year old boy.

The guards shoot him with three darts on Zola’s panicked order and he slumps sideways off the body of the child he just murdered. 

. . .

  
It turns out - they weren’t supposed to kill each other. Zola’s irate like he was the last time someone other than him killed one of his subjects - but he’s only got himself to blame for putting two steroid enhanced soldiers with a predisposition for violence together when they’re hopped up on megalomaniac serum. It’s his own fault, and Bucky’s too; who he can’t kill because now he really is the only remaining successful subject in _both_ his trials.

The come-down lasts for an age when he wakes up on the table, and after, while he’s still strapped down the guards shave his beard and catch him with the blade as often as they can.

It’s the middle of the night, and its in the quiet darkness that they frog-march him, drugged and stumbling to the shower blocks and hose the blood off him. They strip him of his clothes and he grabs at his trousers until they rip.

“Wie zum Teufel hat dieser von den beiden uberlebt?” (“**How the hell did this one survive out of the two of them**?”) One of them comments above him as he wrestles for this trousers back.

He’d like to know that himself.

They rip the remains of his trousers off him by punching him in the stomach. It’s not that hard, even with him sliced down the middle but he goes down, curling up so he can slip green and red under his tongue. He lets the remaining fabric of his ripped pockets fall. He lets them drag him naked back to his cell. Before they shove him into the black hole they drop him until he catches himself on the wall with one hand, and order:

“Sie setzen auf.”

Bucky’s head is too thick and fuzzy to understand.

“Put them on!” Another one orders in accented English and he see’s another prisoner’s green fatigues hanging off a trolley.

It’s only after, once he spits out the identity tags without Sarah to lecture him; that he realizes that he doesn’t have his blood stained skivvies anymore.

. . .

They bring him to the room for the last time afterwards, once he’s been under the second machine for a whole cycle to….do he doesn’t know what.

The room’s a ruin with smashed cabinets and tables and pallets, with bloodstains on the floor, both old and fresh.

Zola, standing behind four guards, points at the scarlet blood over the brown. “What happened here Sergeant?”

Bucky stares blankly at him, left eye red and watering. He tries to swat at his ear but the guard who has his arms locked behind him is firm. The guard with the collar pole shakes it until he focuses.

“What happened here Sergeant?” Zola repeats until Bucky looks back at the stain. “What happened here?”

Bucky mumbles.

“Speak up. I can’t hear you Sergeant.”

“Someone died.” Bucky says louder, slurring a little.

“Someone died,” Zola affirms, “Do you know who died here?”

Bucky shakes his head, _no._

. . .

More subjects and ‘cellmates’ must come and go, Bucky doesn’t bother to learn their names. They’ll just die and leave him alone again until the guards toss Zola another one like a prized fish, because that’s the thing; he keeps on surviving them, over and over.

He knows it must be due to the resilience and healing trials at the beginning; when Zola turned his immune system into some kind of steamroller, but that seems so long ago - years ago - when he thinks back on it now. 

_Was his childhood all some fantastical dream with his strong father, swell best friend and bratty sisters, when really, he was born on this table the same way he planned on dying on it? _

He keeps recovering and the others don’t. They wallow and they cry and then they die.

. . .

  
Zola tells him he’s proud of him.

Whether he’s proud of his biological successes or proud of Bucky for forgetting to scream, he doesn’t know.

What does it matter?

. . .

  
Zola’s getting more impatient. Bucky can tell, because he keeps killing all the new subjects by accident and then having to cut them up in front of Bucky to see where he’s gone wrong.

Currently his only true success, still Zola’s favourite, Bucky rarely leaves the table any more - barely remembers the cell and the rat that kept trying to eat his extremities. That’s how he knows Zola’s been skipping some of the slower steps he meticulously mapped out and logged with Bucky’s, Subject #64’s and the others’ first trials, trying to speed up the process - or even turn it into one procedure instead of two hundred. Recovery times are getting shorter and shorter too. 

The others can’t hack it like he can.

Zola is stressed; anxious; as though he’s suddenly on a quick to close schedule, and Bucky overheard the guards talking - his German has improved tremendously - when he was pretending to be passed out. Something about a visit from the Obergruppenführer, which Bucky thinks is some kind of Lieutenant General, called Schmitt or something. Then the prisoner next to him had started coughing and Bucky couldn’t hear and then he forgot he was supposed to be listening.

The results of this impending visit - or impending doom for Zola as far as Bucky can tell - seem to come to fruition when Bucky’s still trembling and fuzzy from the shocks. His new trousers wet with piss after being under Subject #64’s machine for an intermittent amount of time, he’s reciting paragraphs from Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World to himself when the new-ish prisoner on the other table cuts off mid-scream. Bucky manages to roll his head until it thuds back against the table in the right direction, still mumbling, to see the sandy-haired solider (he looks nothing like Steve - it’s okay) dead, mouth hung open. Zola swears like Andrew used to swear and throws what can only be described as a honest-to-god temper tantrum until the guards at the door leave in awkward silence. He doesn’t bother to cut that one up, allows the man that dignity, just orders the guards to toss him in the furnace with the others.

. . .

He fades in and out, wakes up frozen and stone-like in his body more times than he can count; doesn’t even feel the angry energy he used to feel racing through his veins when Zola gives him the green serum anymore. He has vague memories of the guards shaving him and hacking off some of his greasy hair, which he guesses is kinda' nice of them; but feels like he's three steps above them when they start and finish. He always feels like that now.

Zola sometimes feeds him through a tube in his nose since he doesn't leave the table anymore, which is another miraculous Nazi medical invention Bucky is amazed at as much as he’s disgusted. This one arrived in a package from elsewhere; he saw Zola opening it, so he knows it's not one of his inventions. It's likely, he knows now, that the hydration-tube one wasn't either. Zola's speciality is engineering, this serum stuff is like a side-hustle. He thinks they used to force a metal tube down his throat and funnel down soup and slosh until he swallowed it, that's where the chair in his vague memories comes from, he thinks--but he kept throwing up on himself and smelling out the room more than he already did after so they stopped. His body remembers it even if his mind doesn’t.

His hunger is never satisfied and neither is he, it’s a shitty life and he’s tired of it - wants it to end already. He’s not scared of dying anymore, not like he was before - doesn’t even care if Zola mutilates him after - just wants it to stop.

He can tell Zola’s getting worried he’s regressing back to the weak sickly ‘unresilient’ state he was in before he came here, that his precious serums aren’t as permanent as he thought they were. The doctor takes several hours before he decides to go back to the beginning. He tells Bucky he needs to test if his rate of healing has remained or regressed and in a strange state of deja vou starts taking his shoes off.

He has no socks, can’t remember if he even had them to begin with. Zola cuts his feet up - from the heels to the tip of his largest toes - in long deep strokes and smaller nicks, and contemplates whether to take a toenail as well. He decides on no, but has the guards put out cigarettes and cigar tips on his hip to track the healing rate of the burns instead. Bucky barely even feels him do any of it.

Strangely, after the rubbing alcohol and some half-hearted dressing they put his shoes back on, yanking on the laces until they’re tight enough to throb from the pressure. 

“We don’t want to rats getting at them and contaminating the results.” He thinks he hears Zola say -_ he knows about the rats?_

“Of course I know about the rats Imbecill, half my subjects were turning up missing parts of their fingers - they’re getting bolder - the disgusting vermin.” 

_You’re the disgusting vermin. _

He gives Bucky another shot, the type that he kind of likes because it makes him see stars, followed by the usual steroids. In the last moment he realizes it’s quiet in the darkening lab and that he can’t remember the last time there was another test subject.

He’s the last one.

“The Obergruppenführer is here Herr Doctor” someone says. 

Zola sighs, “Ah yes, I better go see to him then.”

. . .

When he comes back to himself he’s mumbling again, and _Steve._ Steve-big-strong-tall-Steve is stood over him and shaking him.

He says, “It’s me. It’s Steve. I’m getting you out of here,” like some kind of golden avenging angel.

Maybe there is a God afterall.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And welcome to Act 2 - The Rescue and Escape of Hyrdra. Steve is officially in the game; hope your looking forward to his chapter next week.
> 
> In this chapter you might have noticed the writing to have changed a little; I was trying to write in a style that reflects Bucky's fractured thoughts as he looses sense of time, lack of self and the general deterioration of his mental state as this is his POV and how he's perceiving things. Every now and again he comes back to himself a little whenever there is a break in the worst of the experimentation and has conversations with Zola; which if you haven't worked out is because his body starts recovering. Then Zola goes and ruins it for him, as usual.
> 
> My writing regarding Bucky's hallucinations of Sarah and the dogs, and the eyeglasses hallucination were taken as a reference to the 1951 Experiment on Solitary confinement based on a group of male graduates. The plan was to observe students for six weeks, but not one lasted more than seven days. Nearly every student lost the ability “to think clearly about anything for any length of time,” while several others began to suffer hallucinations. “One man could see nothing but dogs,” wrote one of the study’s collaborators, “another nothing but eyeglasses of various types, and so on.”
> 
> EFFECTS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT: Visual and auditory hallucinations, Hypersensitivity to noise and touch, Insomnia and paranoia, Uncontrollable feelings of rage and fear, Distortions of time and perception, Increased risk of suicide & loss of ability to recognize faces (this has been recorded extensively in prisoners who have spent long periods of time in solitary confinement.)
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
stabil und lebensfähig : Stable and viable  
VITA-KAMMER: translates to Vita Chamber. This is the machine Zola uses on Bucky that he calls the 'iron lung.'  
VITALITAT TRIAL: translates to Vitality Trial. This is the trial involving the yellow serum, which effects the immune systems and healing.  
STEHVERMOGEN TRIAL: translates to Stamina/Endurance Trial . This is the trial involving the Green Serum, which effects the muscles and strength etc. Andrew was given this, and from this chapter Zola begins to start giving it to Bucky too.  
OBERGRUPPENFUHRER: 'Lieutenant General' rank of the German army. This is Schmitt/Red Skulls rank.  
IMBECILL: translates to Imbecile.


	10. PART 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ave Maria, gratia plena, let me make this jump, let me land, let me sail over this fire and brimstone as Noah sailed the flood; let me save him. Let him make it out.  
Let us both, because he won’t leave without you, you know he won’t.

STEVE

  
_**Ave Maria,** gratia plena, let me make this jump, let me land, let me sail over this fire and brimstone as Noah sailed the flood; let me save him. Let him make it out._

_Let us both, because he won’t leave without you, you know he won’t._ Steve can be many things - impulsive, short-tempered, bossy and overbearing at times - but one thing he Is not when it comes to James Buchanan Barnes - is a fool. The stubborn jerk hasn’t walked away from finishing a fight with him since he was eleven years old and he won’t start now, Steve knows, even with Hell raining down upon them. He doesn’t know why he’d even tried to be honest - and Bucky always called him the stubborn asshole.

  
_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, _

  
_Ora pro nobis, peccatoribus, let me do the impossible, more than you already have, please God, let me sail. Let me fly._

He feels the steel shock-wave through his shin as it hits the railway, feels his right foot land on the first rung, his left above it; leg bent at the knee - Buck’s fingers in his collar; heat at his heels.

_\- God Almighty, he’s done it - _

He slams hard and fast, propelling himself onto Bucky and rolling, rolling, rolling away from the Devil’s fire, prayers forgotten as he covers every inch of Bucky’s frame with his own, dented shield above his head. As a last ditch effort he kicks at a trolley until it skids in front of him. 

The flames rush past him, hitting anywhere exposed, burning and singeing through the shoulders of his jacket. Sharp pain races through his forearm as shrapnel slices through the flimsy shield, but he hardly feels it over the wave of heat around them. The burn’s gone as quick as it comes, replaced by choking clouds of smoke and lingering heat. Steve hesitantly lowers the blackened shield; the trolley a burned out wreck in front of him. The fires rage around the balcony, roaring like the fireworks every year on his birthday, building and building for another Grand finale.

Bucky’s trembling beneath him.

Steve grunts and shakes out his arm, splattering blood across the balcony as he rolls off his friend and frantically checks him over. Bucky’s eyes are scrunched up tight, his broken fingernails clutching at Steve like a drowning man, barely making a sound. There’s a jagged hole ripped through the metal beam a foot away from where his head had been.

“Buck!” Steve shouts over the noise, running his hands over his friend’s chest and trying to unlatch him from his collar. “Bucky!”  
  
As quick as he had latched onto him Bucky lets go, a hand scrabbling to clutch at the dog tags hanging from his throat while his other reaches downwards to Steve’s forearm. Steve clutches him back just as firmly.

“Steve?” Bucky coughs; struggling into his knees.

“Yeah Buck, I’m here. Come on, we gotta’ go.” Steve replies.

“’our bleedin’” 

He looks down to see Bucky frowning dazedly down at his blood slicked forearm, fingers tightening unconsciously over the tear in the fabric. 

Steve winces, “ It’s fine! It’ll heal in no time, you’ll see. Had worse when I dropped a light on myself trying to help out one of the USO stage hands.”

Bucky blinks in bewilderment at him, “Huh?”

“Nothin’. Never mind.” Shaking his head to clear it; they need to move - Steve hauls him to his feet. “Come on, pal. Up we get.”

He dodges a half-hearted swat Buck doesn’t seem to be aware of and slings his friend’s arm over his shoulder as he’d done earlier. Even with his support Bucky sways unsteadily next to him and Steve can see whatever adrenaline rush had possessed him before is fleeing as quickly as it had come. 

“One step in front of the other, Buck.” Steve says, pulling him towards the burnt out husk of a doorway, the door hanging precariously from it’s hinges. He leads them down three corridors, turning left, then right, then downstairs as he tries to remember the way he’d come; what exits he’d seen from the outside. They must be in the North Side of the factory by now, they’ve travelled all the way from the Isolation Ward on the opposite end. Surely it isn’t far.

Steve jerks to a stop as the corridor opens up to a crosswalk, Bucky tripping over his feet, and wishes he’d glimpsed a blueprint of the warehouse - or something - as he’d done with the map in that Godforsaken lab; then he might have some idea where he was going. His ma had always said he swung with his fists before thinking with his head, and while leading with his heart was a noble enough cause, unthought action would only win out so many times. Not that he’d won many fights that was. Bucky had always said something similar about his reckless abandon, but his ma’s words had always been the kinder of the two. He’s been winging it from the moment he knocked out those goons in the truck, had gotten lucky again and again since, albeit one heart-stopping moment once he’d realized Bucky wasn’t in the cells with the others. 

How had _they_ gotten out?

Steve had freed a good few hundred from several blocks of cells, most of them able-bodied and he can hear gunshots, yelling and what sounds an awful lot like tank fire from outside. 

“Buck!” Steve calls, and shakes him for good measure when he doesn’t snap to attention quick enough. “You worked here before….” he swallows shallowly, “before the lab. You must know some of the building. How do you get out?”

“Um…” Bucky mumbles, turning his head left and right, seems to squeeze the dog tags in his palm tighter to draw the world in focus. He pauses for a moment too long and Steve sighs harshly, scared and panicked. It’s been a miracle they haven’t crossed any more German soldiers that weren’t already engaged, but their luck won’t last forever, not with the fire spreading behind them. He goes to move forward, a half determined decision to continue straight onwards.

“No. Wait-” Bucky seems to plant his feet for what little it’s worth, and tugs him to the right.

“You sure?”

He doesn’t look sure. “Yes.”

Steve huffs a laugh, “Right it is then.”

Later he supposes he’d wonder why he’d followed Bucky’s obviously dubious sense of direction, but with gunfire and literal fire echoing from every side with little chance to discern where it was coming from, _why not?_ Buck had very rarely led him wrong before.

The sound of explosions are getting louder and louder; the vibrations enough to knock a smaller man off his feet. The concrete walls around them begin cracking from the heat, plaster dust falling from the ceiling and red emergency lights flashing every two hundred feet.

“Still going straight, Buck?”

“Ugh…yeah.” His friend replies, pausing around a cough, “straight. I think there should be a window.” 

Steve hauls him higher over his shoulder, ready to run through the walls at this point, consequences be dammed. They’re running out of time, Steve thinks, then - moonlight glimmers ahead, glinting off broken glass scattered across the hallway. Steve yanks them into an alcove with seconds to spare as soldiers bearing the Hydra ensemble armed with glowing guns cross the hallway in front of them, boots clanging on the ground as they pass. Steve hears the distinct sound of energy powering up - the guns? - and Bucky seems to flinch a little from where he’s slumped against the wall. Casting a quick worried glance at him, Steve peeks round the corner.

There’s six of them, all armed, two with glowing Merkel Shotguns of some type, and what looks like glowing grenades hanging from their belts. The Lieutenant, for he was clearly a Lieutenant with the patches on his uniform, is barking orders as the rest of them line up on either side of a black exit door. The gunfire’s closer here, a mere wall away as bullets pierce through the remaining glass in the window ahead of them. Steve supposes he could take them now, and maybe he would have done earlier; but not with Buck in such a state next to him. With any luck if he just waits for them to move forward through the exit they’ll run into a hail of bullets. It would be easier to take them from behind.

Decision made, ducks back into the alcove and listens to the barked German commands, tries to translate what he can.

“Gehen Sie in Zweien raus und runter, Mueller nach links, Fischer nach rechts.” the Lieutenant snaps, “Du hast deine Befehle, tötest so viele wie möglich!”** ("Get out in twos and go down, Mueller to the left, Fischer to the right." The Lieutenant snaps, "You have your orders, kill as many as you can!")**

Something blue blasts from the other end of the corridor, and Steve feels the sheer heat of it against the bare patches of skin on his shoulders where his jacket’s been singed away. He tucks himself as close to the wall as he can, the force of it trying to tear him away.

“- Umzug, jetzt bewegen. Gehen!”** ("- move, move now. Go!")** Comes the sharp command as it clears, men grunting and groaning, and Steve hears the groan of the door as it’s forced open, followed by gunfire, loud and sharp. Over the slight ringing in his ears, he can hear people screaming outside.

He peeks round the corner once again, “Okay, time to go.” He orders, grabbing a hold of his friend’s arm. They run almost like they did in the school yard with two of their feet tied together, Steve can’t help but picture, in those three-legged races with the neighbourhood children. Even at ten years old he had been the smaller of the two of them, and the height difference always worked against them in those childhood games. It’s startling to suddenly be taller than him.

Steve doesn’t think they’d ever won any of those races over the years - not a single one.

Flashes of blue light up the sky through the broken window like a storm, and through the gunfire he hears it - the hum of that same energy charging up the only warning he has. A beam the size of a small tree rockets through the brick two feet behind them and he feels Bucky shove him forward at the same time he does, ducking as low as they can. Steve grunts unhappily as a large chunk of stone cracks in two against the small of his back, followed by a rainstorm of pebbles and dust.

“Steve?” Bucky asks worriedly, pale and dusty. There’s blood trickling from his left ear, and for the life of him Steve can’t remember if it had already been bleeding when he was on that table.

“I’m fine.” He mutters, pulling himself and Bucky from their knees. There’s hooting and cheers, and Steve, who recognizes a New York accent when he hears it, turns to see one of the soldiers he’d freed through the hole in wall sat atop a Hydra tank, inexplicably wearing a bowler hat, firing at anything that moves. Steve shakes his head in wonder and keeps moving to the door.

“We could go out the-”

“We’re still at least three floors up, I’d rather not jump for my life again if you don’t mind. Plus they’d probably shoot us on sight if we come spilling out of there right now.”

“They’ll shoot us on sight if we go out that door just the same, pal.” Bucky counters right back.

He tries to shrug good-naturely, “Least there’s a ladder.”

Bucky grunts next to him, pushing away briefly to pull two Mauser pistols from a Hydra guard lying collapsed before the doorway. He hadn’t made it far. Steve reaches for the glowing grenade on his belt.

“Leave it!” Bucky snaps next to him, unexpectedly handing him one of the pistols instead without meeting his eyes. “Only a punk like you would storm a goddamn enemy base alone without a goddamn weapon - Jesus Christ -”

“I had a gun.”

“Oh yeah? Where?” Buck shoots back without missing a beat, continues without giving him a chance to answer. “The point is to not loose it at the first opportunity, to maybe, I dunno, actually shoot a Kraut. Oh no, I’m sorry, can you fire bullets through your fingers now?”

“My eyes actually.” Steve jokes, huffing a laugh, pulling Bucky against the wall to the left of the door, and peers outside to avoid friendly fire. At least Bucky’s well enough for the moment to gripe at him, Steve thinks, even if he can’t walk straight. 

“Not that advanced, Buck. “ He adds, “Last time I checked we weren’t in one of your Olaf Stapleton books, and science-fiction was, you know, still science-fiction.” 

Bucky snorts before coughing from the dust. “A guy peeled off his face in front of us, the way you peel a orange, you do remember that right?” For a flashing moment in the light of the battle, Bucky looks uncharacteristically vulnerable before Steve answers, as if unsure that Steve had seen the same bizarre and terrifying sight he had.

“Suppose’ you’ve got a point there. On three?”

His friend nods, and on two Steve moves so he’s in front, fighting the urge to take the outdoor stairs two at a time. Outside, the air’s thick with smoke and blood, begging and dead men alike lying on the ground either-side. It’s in many ways one of the worst and one of the most exhilarating sights he’s ever seen and yet, somehow, he thought there would be more bodies. Unexpectedly, as if answering his silent thought, a prisoner in the scraps of a French uniform fires one of the enhanced guns across the field of fire. The Hydra guard, with no time to scream is engulfed and obliterated in a flash of blue and burning flesh. The only remaining marker that he’d been there at all is a blackened splatter caught against the armoured truck he’d been running for. 

Steve feels sick, that this was what the small glowing gadget he’s taken for Stark in his pocket is being designed for.

A rapid bang bang fires out from a pistol behind his left ear, and he see’s two masked guards in black - guns aimed at him - collapse backwards as he turns his head. The first seems to hit the man in the solar plexus, the second; in the throat. The man chokes loud enough that Steve hears him across the way as blood sprays out like the Bethesda fountain. He goes down choking and trembling, clutching at the ruin of his throat before going still.

Buck’s stood dazedly behind him four steps up, clinging to the railing with one hand, gun raised with the other. He’s still squinting with one eye, and looks as though he’s as surprised at his aim as the dead men are. Blinking rapidly, he seems to stumble down onto the next step, fingers fumbling against the trigger. Another shot goes off as loud as the first one.

Steve catches him under the armpits, shoving his arm out and down. “-Christ Buck!” The bullet sinks safely into the dirt after clanging off the stairway. “Bucky!” Steve yells, straightening him up and shoving them both back down just as quick as a wayward blue beam fires over their heads to explode a few floors up. More men, Hydra and Allies each are rounding the corner on this side of the building. A blue explosion takes out what looks to be an entire corner wall followed by the same boisterous laugh, which tells him the American solider with the tank is just round the bend. Any one of them could shoot them or the stairway out from under them if they don’t get off it and to cover soon. Steve pulls Bucky back up as he’d just done, and hardly hears himself over the noise and the smell, telling him they have to move and - “Can you walk?”

Clinging to the sleeve of Steve’s jacket his best friend nods and takes another - more steady - step down. He doesn’t let go and Steve doesn’t make him, aside from numbly flicking the safety back on on Bucky’s gun, and follows Bucky’s pace, a hand hovering worriedly at the small of his back. 

Steve glances around them - more coming - at the building behind - fire spreading - at Bucky’s feet - unsure and stumbling. They arrive at the next level of stairs and turn, ready for the next two levels down - hopefully faster than the first.

Halfway down. “Steve?”

Bucky flinches back from a rush of hot air, a grenade going off fifty feet away; seems to loose his footing again. He doesn’t fall far with Steve’s hand waiting behind him, but he suddenly seems overwhelmed by the brightness and the noise around him - blinking rapidly, muscles taut.

How long has he been locked in that lab with no stimulation?

Without speaking above a murmur Bucky’s hand slips along the sleeve of Steve’s jacket, and he shakes his head and seems to try to rub at his left eye and the scabs there with his other, forgetting he’s still holding the pistol.

“Buck!” Steve stops him, getting frustrated now, but Bucky doesn’t seem to want to move - is ignoring him - keeps trying to rub at his eye and shaking his head to clear it. Steve slips the shield from his back to his other arm and moves to the front, grabs Bucky by the arm and slings him bodily over his shoulder.

With a cut off choke of pain Bucky cries out as he lands. _‘Probably his ribs’,_ Steve thinks guiltily, and Bucky drops the gun from his fingers. It clangs once, twice, thrice as it bounces down the steps and over the side. That’s twelve steps up as Steve makes quick work of the rest, begging Bucky not to struggle. 

_He’ll give you Hell for this later_, Steve knows, because when has Steve himself ever allowed Bucky the liberty of carrying his insolent battered body up the stairs to their apartment? By the Grace of God his friend doesn’t fight, barely even curses Steve out among his grunts and groans before he seems to force his body from it’s tense position, going lax.

“Sorry Buck- “

“Captain!” The unexpected shout - in the most impossibly English accent he’s ever heard - comes from the right as he jumps the last three steps as gently as he can. The man, moustached and wearing a faded red beret, is running towards him from the stolen tank, and turns quickly to fire his own stolen pistol at a guard. Another man pops out from the inside of the tank to replace the man running towards them. As he reaches them, ducking under gunfire, Steve realizes this was the man he’d spoken to in the first set of cells. He can’t recognize his rank from what’s left of his uniform before the man seems to do a double-take once he realizes Steve isn’t alone.

“Is that..? By God, you found him, he’s still alive?”

“Yeah, he is.” Steve says in defiance, ignores what he thinks is a mumbled ‘punk’ from his shoulder.

The man blinks at him disbelievingly, then: “To the treeline, Captain! The wounded have fallen back to the treeline where they can whilst the rest of us give the Devils hell-”

As if on queue a larger than life laugh - a beam of light - followed by a “Choke on your own guns, Kraut fuckers!” disintegrates half a hoard of Hydra guards trying to reorganize themselves. Spying the rest of them moving forward, Steve leaps into a run, and shoves the Englishman behind a truck piled with crates as they open fire. It lasts mere seconds as second and third rounds of shots echo from the tank rounding the corner. 

He nods to the man, “I didn’t see any more guards still in the building, and any that are still there won’t be in a minute.” He shouts, looking back towards the building at the flames drowning out the light of the moon.

“Our guys that went back in are out now too, from one of the delivery doors on the West side!”

“Then there’s not many left! Only those out here, how many men do we have?”

“Enough I reckon if we hit them right, but we’re losing more every minute from the long range guns and the snipers. Fair to say we’ve lost the element of surprise by now!” 

“Snipers?” Steve questions. Men are running across the bodies and dirt, kicking up ash and blood as they go. Four of them go down under Hydra guns and Steve bristles inwardly, ready to act.

“They’re reconvening on the East side of the building to come round - we’ve got one of their radios - “ A blue blast disintegrates three of their men and the solider cuts himself off to swear - “but we can’t get close to hit them; not with those Jerrys’ up there in the watchtower.”

Here he points round the crates to an tall outbuilding Steve had noted when he’d scouted the place earlier in the evening, separate from the main factory, and annoyingly not on fire. There had been two watchtowers on opposite corners of the compound - the other seemed to already be smoking - with men walking the perimeter every two minutes, which was why Steve had had to sneak in with the truck - the only way to get in without being seen. As he watches he can see two muzzles flashes - one white, one blue - through the dark windows of the tower. The spotlight is pointed East to light up the way for the Hydra reformation. 

Sprays of bullets strike the corner of the next crate over from them and Steve sees both legs of an American men shot off from under him at the knee in a sickening squelch of flesh and bone. A machine gun then, probably some kind of MG15, along with one of those blue cannons. The man begins screaming and begging, trying to get onto feet that are no longer there. Steve starts forward to help him - somehow help him - for a moment forgetting Bucky on his back and the man at his side.

In his moment of hesitation another round of matching fire shoots the man in the face.

Steve turns away as he man’s face caves in and his brains splatter on the floor around him - glares at the flashing muzzle in the dark. “Tell them to hold their positions, it’s useless charging and throwing away lives like that” he orders, because surely this Englishman isn’t a private and has given orders himself before. “I’ll take care of it!”

The Englishman gapes at him, “You’ll take care of it?!” He shouts back in disbelief “There’s no way-”

“I’ll take care of the watchtower.” Steve repeats, “when I give the signal hit them hard and hit them fast, use that tank to blow a hole through them.” With that last command, the soldier silent beside him, he barks - “The treeline you said? Where?”

The Englishman points past the torn fencing and Steve can see a solider being dragged by another across the ground in stops and starts as the other man tries to avoid bursts of bullets. Steve steels himself, “Hold your positions!” He repeats, and runs.

He runs fast, faster than he’d done after that Hydra spy months ago before he’d chomped down on that little white pill. He isn’t thinking about Erskine this time, has someone else in mind, and this time he isn’t going to fail. Sprays of bullets spit dirt and wood behind him, but he’s too fast - _faster than bullets_, Steve thinks giddily, and he swings out his arm and feels the shield shatter the goggles of a Hydra man as he comes from the right. The guard flies up and backward, hits the underside of an overturned truck with a crunch and doesn’t get up.

By God, he's invincible.

He dodges between crates, still too fast, over the lip of the torn fence, past the wounded soldier being dragged. He slows as he breaches the treeline but keeps going until he sees men moving and groaning on the ground. There’s a soldier running between them all and a truck they’ve crashed through the trees - and probably the fence too - missing the red cross he would normally wear on his arm. Steve jogs to the side of the truck, bends down and lowers Bucky off his shoulder against the back wheel, readying himself for an argument he’s going to have to shut down quickly. He’s ready for the shouting, the cursing and a repeat of the ridiculous ‘Not without you!’ debacle earlier but its silent from Bucky’s end when he sets him down.

His friend slumps bonelessly against the wheel, eyes closed, and when Steve tilts his neck up he feels soft breaths huffing against this face. _He must have passed out on your back without you realizing_. Steve sighs; lets Bucky’s head loll, pats his leg and is off again.

Darting back quickly he hauls the wounded man from the other soldier’s arms and yanks him out of the way of a German goon making pot shots, and launches a rock from the ground at him. The soldier next to him blinks and starts running full pelt at the treeline after a push, and the wounded man, a Sergeant, groans as Steve runs back with him just as quick. He passes the same man and beats him there, pivots back round after handing the other one off.

He breaches the treeline and the fence again and sees the solider in the bowler hat have to duck back inside the tank, bullets ricocheting off the lid as he screams at someone inside to “Goddamn fire back at them!”

Steve turns sharply as bullets rocket at the body of the tanks again - coming from the watchtower. A Hydra tank without the enhancements, A Tiger from the looks of things, rounds from the other side of the compound and levels it’s gun at the stolen one. Steve goes to shout, or run towards it but the ‘American’ tank rivets itself backwards as the other one fires. The single shell misses the tank by inches and soars over Steve’s head into the darkness with a sharp whistle. They’ve seen the enemy Tiger and moved to fire back; the ‘trunk’ swivel-ling to face the other. Their tank can’t take out the watchtower while it has that enemy Tiger to contend with, god knows they were practically impossible to breach themselves, and they certifiably can’t ‘blow a hole’ through the Hydra troops as Steve had said whilst that watchtower still stood.

_Right then_, Steve thinks,_ you might as well see what this body can really do._

The windows left on every floor of the factory burst with an explosion of fire and blue light - the heat had clearly set off whatever was left in the building - and in the space following he jumps a stationary smoking tank and sees the English soldier holding a hoard of armed prisoners back behind a block of crates, watching him disbelievingly - head swivel-ling to follow his path.

Steve doesn’t think of it outside of taking that watchtower out.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:   
(1a. )Ave Maria, gratia plena, let me make this jump, let me land, let me sail over this fire and brimstone as Noah sailed the flood, let me save him. Let him make it out.  
FULL TRANSLATION : Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
> 
> (1b.) Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,   
Ora pro nobis, peccatoribus, let me do the impossible, more than you already have, let me sail. Let me fly.  
FULL TRANSLATION : Holy Mary, mother of God, Pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. Amen.
> 
> SOURCE AND REFERNCE: The beginning of the first two verses are of the Hail Mary prayer, one of the essential prayers of the Catholic faith. Steve’s mother was classed as a Catholic Irish Immigrant, and so would have raised Steve in that faith or sent him to a Catholic school and or Sunday School as was done more frequently in those days. 
> 
> There is a reference to Noah’s Ark, told in the bible from Genesis’s 5-9, tellling the tale of when the entire population of mankind had become evil and wicked. God decided to bring a flood to the earth to destroy everyone but Noah and his family, a tenth descent from Adam, who found favour with God. God told Noah to prepare and build ark big enough to hold one male and one female from every kind of animal and creature. This is why many pictures depicting Noah’s ark show animals coming two by two.
> 
> (3.) MERKEL SHOTGUN : Popular gun of the Third Reich in World War Two, German made. These shotguns in particular had been modified and enhanced by Zola and his engineers to use to energy given off from the Tesseract. If you would like to see a picture reference the concept art for the First Avenger film is online with drawings and notations of all these weapons and Hydra uniforms.
> 
> (4.) William Olaf Stapledon (1886–1950), a philosopher and science fiction writer, was probably the most important English science fiction writer between H.G. Wells and Arthur C. Clarke. His first novel was Last and First Men: A Story of the Near and Far Future (1930), achieved a wide readership at the time: it was even reprinted by Penguin as one of the first blue-spined Pelicans, a series devoted to non-fiction, because of its status as local “scientific” prophecy. The book describes the rise and fall of eighteen separate races of humanity: the story is told by one of the Last Men, that is, the one of the Eighteenth Men. In Last Men in London (1932), one of the Last Men comes to the period of the First World War, a crucial time. Star Maker (1937) extends the chronological narrative range by nearly a hundred billion years, and looks at the evolution of aliens as well as humans. 
> 
> SOURCE AND REFERENCE: My arguement is that with Bucky taking them to the World Exposition in New York and obviously being a little star-struck of Howard Stark, that he loves Science-Fiction and anything furisitic, and would be a keen reader of Science-Fiction during that era, outisde of HG.Wells as an example.
> 
> (5.) ‘KRAUTS’ : American name for German Soliders in WW11.  
(6.) ‘JERRYS’ : British name for German Solideris in WW11.  
(7.)GERMAN MG15 MACHIENE GUN : introduced in 1932, was an aircooled machiene gun developed from the Austrian Suloturn MG30. Mounted on a bipod, the gun was fed by a 75 round saddle drum.
> 
> (8.) TIGER TANK : The German heavy tank of choice during World War II, the Tiger was a formidable adversary, bringing massive armour and firepower to the theatre of war. The Tiger was feared and rightly so, as it was an efficient and powerful killer. It was armed with a 8.8cm main gun, capable of firing rounds that not only tore through enemy armour but also carried highly explosive tips which literally ripped man and machine in two.  
On top of all this, it also sported armour that was impregnable at wide firing angles and distances and was driven by commanders who had already proved themselves in warfare. It was due to these attributes that Tiger tanks accounted for thousands of allied kills.


	11. PART 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky clenches his fingers tighter, and pulls him until he follows, stumbling against a tree farther away from the hustle. He lets go to practically hug the bark of the tree, looks up at the canopy and around him again. Steve, thinking him delirious, reaches out to check his temperature. Bucky’s eyes shoot to him as he does, bright and possessed. 
> 
> “Is this real, Steve?” He asks, sounding like he’s almost begging, “Is this real? It feels real, like, like the tree and ---and you,” he clenches a hand around the zip of Steve’s jacket, digging the metal into his palm like Steve saw him do with his dog-tags earlier. “But not you at the same time. But you feel…Is this real? Tell me it’s real.”

STEVE

  
Taking in the treeline as he coordinates the groups of half-starved men flocking to him like sheep to a Shepard, Steve takes a moment to breathe it all in. Half his mind is spinning with the intensity of it, the reality of succeeding at something so _impossibly impossible_; of throwing this new body at a mission and_ succeeding_ \- while the other half stilts on one unavoidable thought -_ now what?_

His eyes flicker over to where he left his best friend, his silhouette shadowed against the truck, within sight if not arms-reach for the moment, battered and bruised. Steve realizes at this moment that this time he’ll be on his own - there’s no Barnes backup waiting round the corner alley. Usually Bucky gets him out of, or most usually takes part in his hare-brained schemes - _he was as bad as Steve honestly_ \- but not this time. With the sky dark above him the only light striking through the gaps in the trees is the burning orange and grey smoke; the remnants of the wrecked watchtower. He can see it’s bent and burned husk through the trunks, and hear it setting off smaller explosions every now and again.

Men are looking at him with star-stuck expressions, some whispering and pointing to each other, especially those who’d seen him bring the tower down single-handedly. Steve doesn’t know how to feel or how to act with those looks directed at him, has only ever been looked at like that by eight year olds while wearing tights, or Peggy Carter, hovering over his new body as he stepped from Erskine's machine. 

_Be clear and precise, know your fellow NCO’s and use them to your advantage. You can’t win battles single-handedly, a platoon is a team, not a one man army. That’s the first mistake most hot-heads make - and usually their last. Trust your men._

With George Barnes’ words echoing in his head, Steve gains his courage; and through his mother’s composure; his strength.

“Men fall in!”

The quickest of those to arrive are the Englishman who’d helped him coordinate before, followed by many others, both American and European; coloured and white. Steve scans their uniforms for any commanders; especially for any of those who ‘outranked’ a fake Captain. _Technically all of them, not that they had to know that._ He recognizes a few patches and pins, those that are left on old uniforms, but when he looks at the faces they belong to - he see’s more fortitude in some of the Private’s faces than the officers.

“First point of protocol is to get moving, and get the wounded seen to. We’re in enemy territory, and they know our position, so we need to get somewhere else.”

“Captain.” The Englishman says, and introduces himself formally when Steve looks at him in askance. “Major James Falsworth, of Her Majesty 3rd Independant Parachute Brigade.” _A major, great way to start there Rodgers._ “Do you know where we are?”

“Krausburg, Austria. Thirty miles north of the line, and another fifty miles to the closest Allied base from that. You - or the 107th at least, were taken here from Azzano I believe….” Steve pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts, “How many medics do we have here, does anyone know? We need to get the wounded seen to.”

"I've seen one or two around here for sure!" Someone shouts from the back.

"Bates, where the hell are ya', man?" Someone else hollers ineffectively away from the group.

“I for one know all the men would feel a lot better if we were further away from here - they’ll surely be some Kraut cockroaches ready to come out of the woodwork.” A moustached man counters to his right, and Steve recognizes him as the man who’d effectively taken out a Tiger tank whilst also just as effectively employing every swear word in the English dictionary all at the same time. 

Steve nods, “And I understand that, and we’ll prepare for it. But were not leaving or loosing anymore men than we already have if we can help it….”

“Sergeant Dugan.” The man replies gruffly, clearly having little to no restraint in questioning a supposed superior officer. Steve blinks, recognizing the name from Bucky’s letter to him, having mentioned an a solider called Dugan - older and more experienced - with a big mouth. He also looks as though he may be one of the most pro-active, and the least held back by injury. He could be useful.

“Load the wounded onto the trucks, and the tank.” Steve orders, trying to compromise, “anyone who can’t walk. Any who can - will. Do the rounds, see how many that is and how many others have any kind of aid training. There’s at least one medic I’ve seen,” he continues, straining his neck as he searches out the man he’d seen and points - several men’s heads follow.

"Yo, there he is! That's Bates, man." The same man hollers, waving. Bates, the medic, glances at him but then turns away to continue running between six men on the ground, clearly prioritising them over Steve - which he can hardly argue with.

“We move out in twenty minutes latest, so hustle, and we keep going until dawn - then we’ll stop and regroup.” Steve continues, eyes on the men and then the wounded men trying to get up behind.

“Yes Sir,” Dugan nods, apparently content with that plan, and pulls an African American solider with him. “Jones, with me.”

“He was right about the stragglers Captain,” Falsworth jumps in, “we’ll lose that light in the forest and then any fires will be like beacons for them. We’d be inviting a fight, with Jerrys or whoever these men were-”

“Hydra.” Steve replies, summing up as quickly as he can. “They’re an independent Nazi Scientific Branch of the Reich, outside of the German army.” His knowledge of the enemy seems to reassure the men further that he knows what he’s doing.

_ Like hell he does_, Steve thinks manically. “Then keep any fires low and minimal, use the trucks lights instead, our eyes will adjust eventually.”

“It’ll be rough going.”

“It’ll need to be done. We’re getting as many of you home as we can, whatever way and with whatever means it takes. I’m willing to keep going until it’s done. We can’t stay here, that’s not an option.” Steve says, resolutely. _Whatever it takes._ “And send out scouts in front and behind us - who else is an NCO here?”

A few men identify themselves from all the armies standing on offer, some more hesitantly than others - Falsworth possibly in the latter half. _Too bad_, Steve thinks,_ I recognized him first, he was the next point of call and then most specialist trained_ \- outranking him but following orders without hesitation. Steve focuses on the more confident ones - orders them to find as many of their platoons as they can - to send out the men with the most field experience as scouts.

As it's suddenly done and dusted and a good chunk of them begin to move off to start the assistance he thinks: Christ, he really shouldn’t be ordering around real qualified officers here. _But hey, Louis Calloway always used to say you were a cocky little shit. You're hardly going to watch your mouth now._

“We’re probably going to end up in a firefight anyway, but we’ll do our best to avoid it.” Thinking quickly he says, “We need to take as much Hydra tech back as we can afford, and try to establish contact with the Allied base.” The communicator Peggy had given him was busted at some point in the fighting, he doesn’t know when but it had been one of the first things he checked. “Does anyone have any…”

“Radio experience?” A Japanese-American soldier says, “That might be a job for me, I moved up in analog communication before I shipped out. I’ll see what I can do. And that Frog there-” here he nods to a man wearing less of a uniform than all the others, but from the ‘Frog’ phrase Steve assumes he must be French, “figured out how to work those blue guns and grenades in under a minute.” He advises, before jogging away to find a radio.

Right now, Steve really wished he hadn’t shrugged off so many of Bucky’s offers of double dates with that French ‘gal of his and her cousin, then maybe he wouldn’t be so out of his depth with the language. 

"J'en ai utilisé un au combat, pas si difficile après quelques tripotages. Voulez-vous que je voie ce que je peux ramasser en toute sécurité? Ou apprendre aux gens à tirer?” The Frenchman chatters, must to Steve’s bewilderment, but seems to understand completely what Steve needs him to do once an Italian man relays a few words to him, and off he goes. The men all now move off with orders except for Falsworth, a Lieutenant and the same small thin Italian man - who pulls him to one side. It turns out, through stilting English, the man was Italian resistance, caught sabotaging a German supply line with his sister and he knows the area on both sides of the border well; and can map out a route on the Italian side which will bypass nearly all of the main German patrols.

Steve takes his name, grateful and impressed, with a view to seeking him out later when they reach the border. They just have to get out of Austria first.

By now, as he runs over to help the medic and to load the heavier crates onto the trucks as quickly and efficiently as he can, the crazy adrenaline possessing him from the watchtower is finally starting to sour on his tongue. His mouth is too dry to spit, there's ash thick in his mouth and thick on his tongue and his legs ache with each pound of his heart. He doesn’t want to think about what the other men are feeling. While his body can handle the adrenaline without the crash, the world around him still seems to be moving completely in and out of sync at the same time.

_It's called Battle Frenzy, boy. _

George Barnes had told the two of them about it once, man-talk while their mothers and Buck’s sisters were out - and Steve had wondered if his father had felt any of that righteous blood pumping fury as he died; if the mustard gas had allowed him that much dignity. Before Mr Barnes’ quiet war stories he used to think it a righteous and honourable way to die, used to look up at his father’s photo on the wall like an icon as his mother brushed his teeth and washed his face in the sink.

War made men heroes where they wouldn’t be otherwise.

He still feels that way to a certain extent, especially after Pearl Harbour, but also strictly beforehand too. It’s always only been right to do his part but he doesn’t favour it as fanatically as he used to. Bucky had always heard more of his pa’s stories than Steve did; had actually grown up with a father serving in both wars and the isolation in between. He had known and loved a father before he died bloody under German gunfire (and only a year and a half ago, Steve reminds himself sadly) whilst Steve's only had a picture in a frame to look up to like a holy idol, and so he’s always thought Bucky had a different opinion.

Bucky’s father had been a First Sergeant for years at Fort Hamilton, and when Bucky had been bumped up for more training and promoted to Sergeant himself before Wisconsin, Steve remembers he’d said Buck’s father would have been proud of him. Seven months after Operation Torch shipped out and five months after the awful telegraph of 1942 Bucky had gone almost startlingly quiet. Steve hadn’t known what to think - if he’d said the wrong thing or the right thing or just a complicated thing. For at the time wasn’t that why Bucky had enlisted, to avenge the father who taught him to walk and to box, the man whose son’s loyalty to him ran to the ends of the earth? 

Bucky had lied to him about enlisting. He knows that now, but has never told his friend he knows. He’s never seen the papers himself but Becca had told him, still snappish and grief-stricken while Bucky was training in Wisconsin that he had been conscripted for service. That she thought their father had known he would be called up and had tried to quietly prevent it both in the ranks and with pressuring Bucky into more classes at the local colleges. You could get a deferment to continue your education after-all, and she’d been right; while having to register for the Peacetime Draft in 1940 Bucky hadn’t actually been called up until late 1942, after his father had died in Africa. They’d never gotten his body back but they had stories from the G.I’s from childhood that had still served with him at the end, and they had the two letters to the family from him. In both, he’d made a point of telling Bucky to stick to his classes and to do well. After that visit to see the girls Steve had wondered on it, first why Bucky had lied to him -_ did he think he’d be disappointed, or ashamed?_ \- and then to whether his friend knew what Becca thought his father had tried to do: if that had been why he’d gone quiet that one time. Becca didn’t think he knew, but then again Becca has always been one to notoriously underestimate Bucky half-seriously and half-jokingly.

Steve shakes the thought from his head along with the frenzied feeling, as much as he can, and takes another moment to take in his surroundings properly.

There’s less wounded than he has any right to expect - he finds out later the reason there’s so few wounded men is because those blue weapons wiped out the others completely, and the rest had already bled out. They are weapons with no option to wound, only to kill.

_Thou shall not kill: and whoever kills shall be liable to judgement. _

Steve has killed today.

It doesn’t take long to get them loaded onto the few trucks they have, and in the hurried scramble of the makeshift camp, Steve finds a moment to slip away. Bucky’s still slumped where he left him as men ignore and step over his prone legs in the rush to get moving. It doesn’t look like anyone’s noticed him there yet with all the unmoving men on the ground, let alone seen to him.

_ I should have checked on him first,_ Steve thinks guiltily.

“Bucky?” He calls, landing lightly on his knees as his friend seems to slowly stir - fighting to open his eyes - head rocking to the side. Steve reaches out a hand to palm it against his cheek. Bucky flinches at the touch, right hand snapping up and twisting Steve’s wrist until he yelps more from surprise than pain. He also tries to kick him in the groin for good measure. Well, that seemed to have done the trick. His friend’s eyes shoot open, pupils wide and glassy, looking wildly around him----

“Hey hey, easy, easy. Easy Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes seem to hone in on him and he loosens his grip. “Steve?” He questions, in a mockery of their earlier conversation in that godawful lab. His friend blinks dazedly at him a couple of times, as though trying to draw him into focus, and lets go of Steve’s wrist to pull his knees up from where Steve has caught his foot. “Steve.” Bucky repeats, less of a question this time. Looking more aware, he turns his head to look past Steve and starts rubbing at his left eye.

He was doing that during the escape too, Steve realizes, as if it’s irritating him.

Steve looks closer, now able to check him over properly without a building exploding around them. His pupils are blown wide; drugged, his brow bone and arch of his cheek bruised and scraped. He keeps rubbing at it- a head injury? - and Steve’s seen the needle tracks on the inside of his elbows, along with similar bruised skin over his jugular vein. He’d had to pull out one needle still stuck in him, along with some kind of tube. His shirt’s grimy and ripped, his hair greasy but bluntly cut with five o’clock shadow growing on his jaw, and he stinks of vomit and urine. Steve can feel a fever. 

_Oh, Buck._

“Where….where are we?”

“Outside of the base, past the fences - we’re getting ready to move out to the nearest Allied Base. It’s about sixty or so miles north.”

“We…we’re outside…” Bucky asks, looking unsure and extremely confused. Steve pauses, about to explain again, but instead catches Bucky’s hand when it goes for his eye again.

“Come on pal,” he says, pulling Bucky to his feet and steadying him. “Let’s get you on a truck-”

“What? No. No.”

“Buck come on, you’re not in any state-”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Bucky starts, mumbles turning to upset ranting. “No, no, no. I can walk. I’m walking. Let me walk! Please Stevie. Please. I can walk. I can walk.”

Steve shakes his head, staying calm for Bucky’s sake, “I’d feel a lot better if you-”

“This isn’t up to you!” Bucky suddenly snaps and Steve flinches back a little a the change of tone; begging to angry. “Okay! This isn’t up to you. I want to walk---- let me walk, I swear Steve. This is my choice, mine, not yours. I’m walking.” He pushes away from Steve roughly, stumbling back and repeats, “I’m walking.”

He’s adamant, and Steve knows it. He knows there's no arguing when Bucky's like this, not unless he wants to make it ten times worse, and his repetitive ranting is already worrisome enough.

“I’m walking. I’m walking, I swore to pa that I would-”

“Okay Buck. Okay.” Steve soothes, steadying him at the shoulders when he startles, furiously rubbing at his eye again. “Okay, you can walk. You can walk,” he says, not happy about it at all, “but you’re gonna’ have to see a medic, get checked out-”

“I don’t need-”

“Yes you do.” Steve cuts him off, firmly and forceably. He’ll allow Bucky to walk, will give him an inch but that's where he draws the line. He was seeing a doctor, no way around it. “The medic’s name is Bates, let me flag him down-”

“No, no, no. Steve.” Bucky mumbles in the face of Steve’s certainty. “You don’t need to-”

“Wait a - _Sarge?_”

The voice comes from behind them and Bucky turns with him after a seconds delay, seemingly recognizing the disbelieving voice. The African American solider is stood with Sergeant Dugan, smacking the man across the chest frantically to get his attention whilst staring at the two of them.

It seems to work and the Sergeant does a double-take, shouts, “Jesus Christ, Barnes?! That you Bucky?”

Suddenly Dugan's in front of them. The man moves forward quickly, half slapping and half trying to hug his friend, almost pulling him off his feet until Bucky loses his balance. Steve catches him from behind as he trips. “Easy boys,” he warns, eyes harder than he means them to be. “Take it easy with him.”

The man seems to catch his meaning and pulls back, realizing belatedly that Bucky has tensed from the unexpected contact. Bucky mumbles in bewilderment, “Dum Dum?”

Steve frowns, “Um Buck, that’s not his-”

“Nah it is.” Dugan reassures, grinning, “To my friends. ‘s Not like goddamn Bucky is his God-given name.” He snorts.

“Fuck you.” Bucky slurs after inadvertently cringing for a moment. “Father Richards christened me all well and holy as Bucky Buchannan Barnes, Dum Dum, _you uncivilized piece of shit._”

Steve snorts, “He did not, you liar.”

“You weren’t there, were you? So what would you know?”

“I know your ma never stumped to calling you Bucky once in our whole lives, James Barnes.”

Dugan laughs, and Jones says “God-given or not Sarge, we didn’t think we’d ever be seeing you again. Thought you were a goner’ for sure - dead weeks ago.”

“Weeks?” Steve shoots in quickly before Bucky can, who altogether looks rather sick at the thought of it. “That’s how long he was gone for?”

“It’s hard to tell the time passing in that place, you know? And we saw him getting dragged off - different cell blocks; the Krauts would rotate you out if they noticed guys getting too chummy - but yeah, ages ago. Maybe a month? That right, you think Jones?” Dugan clarifies, turning to the African American man.

“Over.”

“Over a month?” Steve says numbly, heart stone cold in his chest.

“Yeah. Six or seven weeks, or there ‘bouts, I’m pretty sure, I was counting the sunrises. And the prisoners never last long, not more than a few weeks, and they kept taking more after him. We figured one of the others had probably already shoved his body in the incinerator.”

Steve bites his tongue, angry and sick to his stomach; unable to look a Bucky for a moment. That was why no one, including these men had reacted when he’d asked about his friend, they thought he was looking for ashes - because as far as they were concerned he’d died _a month_ back.

_ But he didn’t,_ Steve has to remind himself,_ he hasn’t. He’s standing right next you you, he’s alive._ He’s standing beside him, eyes wandering around between the trees like he can’t quite believe it. _Me too pal, me too. _

He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder in response, forces the fear and nausea off his face now he’s got the information he wanted - needed - to know, pulling Bucky’s focus back onto him. Bucky looks at Steve with the same expression, rests a hand against his bicep nervously. Steve smiles at his friend and turns back to the others, “Clearly they underestimated him. Becca would have a field day, wouldn’t she Buck?”

Bucky doesn’t seem to grasp the joke, or if he does he doesn't react, just keeps staring at Steve and the canopy above them. He suddenly looks like he’s somewhere else.

“Sarge? You okay there?” The private, Jones, asks the question he can’t get out.

Bucky’s head bobs, “Huh?”

“He asked if you were okay, you idiot.” Dugan replies gruffly, but worriedly. “Well, are ya?”

Bucky sniffs and he says slowly, still slurring slightly. “Yeah…yeah… I just,” Bucky starts then rubs at his eye until it begins to water, reassuring absolutely nobody. He turns to Steve, dragging his eyes from Steve’s chest to his face. “Can I talk to you?”

“You’re talking right now, pal.”

“No I mean…” his eyes flicker to Jones and Dugan shiftily, the ‘can-I-talk-to-you-alone’ clearly implied this time.

“Hey, well we gotta’ sort out the rest of the scouting and loading up,” Dugan jumps in convincingly, “but come find us later before we move out, we’ll save ya’ a spot First-Class on the best truck; sandbag pillow and all-”

“Buck’s gonna walk for now,” Steve cuts him off calmly before Bucky can start again, trying portray to the other dubious looking men that this was how things were going to go - whether he and they were happy about it or not. “But we’ll find you later when we get moving, I’m sure it’ll be good to have some familiar company on the walk.”

“Absolutely Captain,” Says Private Jones, nodding and pulling Dugan with him; the moustached man watching Bucky worriedly and warily. “We’ll see you in a minute Barnes.”

Steve turns back to his friend, who seems to have lost his train of thought again whilst ignoring the other soldiers, staring again at the leaves of the tree-canopy and clutching at Steve’s jacket sleeve. The light of the fires are reflecting through the trees onto the arches of his face, drawing even more focus to his glassy eyes and dilated pupils.

“What did you wanna’ talk to me about alone, Buck?”

Bucky turns to look blankly at him for a moment as though he’s forgotten, before hissing in a breath, eyes clearing as much as they can in their drugged haze. He looks over Steve’s shoulder, tugs him unsuccessfully and unsteadily by his arm away from the truck at his back. “Pal? What are we-”

Bucky clenches his fingers tighter, and pulls him until he follows, stumbling against a tree farther away from the hustle. He lets go to practically hug the bark of the tree, looks up at the canopy and around him again. Steve, thinking him delirious, reaches out to check his temperature. Bucky’s eyes shoot to him as he does, bright and possessed. 

“Is this real, Steve?” He asks, sounding like he’s almost begging. “Is this real? It feels real, like, like the tree and ---and _you_,” he clenches a hand around the zip of Steve’s jacket, digging the metal into his palm like Steve saw him do with his dog-tags earlier. “But not you at the same time. But you feel…Is this...? _Tell me it’s real.”_

Steve feels his face collapse, “God Bucky, yes, _yes_, this is real. I’m real. The tree is real, you are goddamn real, pal.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I promise.”

“So I’m not…am I dead? It can be real - or feel real - if I’m dead with the after-life and all. Sister Judith always said-”

“You are not dead.” Steve says as firmly as he can before Bucky can start rambling, trapping Bucky’s sweaty head in between his hands until he looks at him properly. “You are not dead.”

He still looks unsure, “I’m not? I thought I was. I thought it was finally over…” Hands suddenly trembling, Steve pulls Bucky close to him, hugging him as tightly as he can. This time Bucky doesn’t tense - instead he clings back and continues mumbling. “I thought it was over, I thought it was finally-”

“-It is over Buck-”

“-No, No, it’s never over, no, it’s never-”

“-It’s over, I swear it to God, _on my ma’s grave._ It’s over, Buck, they can’t hurt you anymore - I won’t let them. You’re alive, you’re out, we escaped; all of us and it’s over.” Finally, after what feels like an age, he feels Bucky nodding into his chest. Undeterred he continues; needs to go further, “Do I feel real right now?”

Bucky nods against his collar bone a second time.

“Do you feel real?” A pause. Bucky shakes his head hesitantly, and Steve squeezes him and loosens his grip, pulls back just a little. “Does the fresh air out here feel real? Does the sight of the grass and the tree behind you feel real? Yes, they do, because they are.… Do you believe me?”

Bucky pushes him backwards gently, eyes glassy with drugs or tears Steve doesn’t know. “I believe you.” Steve sighs in pure relief as Bucky looks around at the soldiers loading trucks with pilfered supplies, as though with new eyes. Bucky says, softly, wonderingly; “Jesus Christ, Steve…What did you do?”

He can’t seem to fight the self-deprecating smile appearing on his face, “It’s a long story. I can’t wait to tell you about it later…but we’ve got to get moving. So what do you say, still up for walking or---”

“I’m not…I’m not changing my mind.”

Steve’s huffs out a resigned laugh, “I had a feeling you wouldn’t, but it was worth a try.” He smiles, almost tearful, squeezes the back of Bucky’s neck, “Come on, let’s find some of your old men.”

_Find someone to keep an eye on you when I get called away -_ he can already see Falsworth motioning to him - _because you’re not okay, no matter what you say. _

“And the medic too.” He adds for good measure. Bucky groans unhappily beside him.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed Steve's new chapter, let me know what you think about it all or even what you think will happen next and in the rest of the story. Remember there are clues in the original story summary of A Partridge in A Pair Tree, so see if you can work out how many are already crossed off. Reviews always manage to make my day, so thank you again for all my serial reviewers like Ifis.
> 
> With all this unprecedented time off stuck in the house I really don't have an excuse not to write at least, haha, so with luck over the next week there should be many more words in my chapter notebooks. Fingers crossed.
> 
> Hope everyone's staying safe and healthy in these uncertain times! 
> 
> NOTES: 
> 
> FRENCH TRANSLATION : I used one in battle, not that difficult after some fiddling. Do you want me to see what I can safely pick up? Or teach people to shoot?


	12. PART 10 (a.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tunes in and out like a radio, a companion always at his side. Sometimes it’s Dugan, sometimes Jones, - Dernier too, the crazy motherfucker - chattering loudly and constantly at the edge of Bucky’s vision as he did in their cell. 
> 
> He can feel the man’s eyes on him, up and down, up and down, like he’s a particularly interesting piece of pork. He’s probably thinking, why didn’t this smuck’s insides burn up like the others? But the thing is, they did, before the frost of his new flesh cocooned him like a caterpillar and saved him, and before the fire spat him back out - a new kind of insect.

BUCKY

  
He doesn’t feel cold anymore. _That’s new,_ he thinks; from the ghostly frost creeping from Zola’s hands to his skin, through his flesh and down to his veins underneath. A dozen points of contact; ‘contagion zones’ now and forever - like a New York winter lingering long after it’s outstayed it’s welcome. He hasn’t been cold since the burning factory dream-not-dream, he realizes, as though the fire had slipped in through his mouth, down his throat and followed him outside - another unwelcome parasite. A thick cloying heat shivers and drapes itself around his aching body instead like a blanket; a barrier keeping him on one side and the world on another._ Has he felt this before?_

“Come on Sarge, keep moving.”

Tongue still feeling thick in his mouth, he doesn’t answer and feels a hand on his back fuel his shuffling steps forward. 

“He good?” he hears, somewhere behind him, a voice he doesn’t recognize.

Someone snorts, “Debatable.”

Steve is somewhere in front of him, his voice clipped, having an argument with someone unknown_. Ah, something familiar then._ Bucky blinks, and tries to get ahead to his friend because lets face it, an arguing Steve always leads to a bodily fight whether they’re in a Brooklyn alley or in a European warzone.

Someone crosses across his vision, and he looses sight of whatever it was he was starting forwards for. So he keeps walking as the horizon sky purples violet and blue with the beginnings of dawn, stars still glinting above their heads.

. . .

Steve comes to check on him, puts his hands on both of his shoulders, peers into his eyes. Bucky smiles, fever bright.

“You’re my _balavas._” he says.

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Your what now?”

“My _balavas,_” Bucky repeats with certainty, still grinning. 

Steve still looks doubtful, looks equally amused and concerned. “Okay Bucky,” he says conspiratorially, patting his shoulder. “Whatever you say. Think you can go a little further?”

Bucky nods, because he can go anywhere Steve goes no matter how far, or how long. He can follow, it’s as easy as following the sun.

. . .

He tunes in and out like a radio, a companion always at his side. Sometimes it’s Dugan, sometimes Jones, - Dernier too, the crazy motherfucker - chattering loudly and constantly at the edge of Bucky’s vision as he did in their cell. He can feel the man’s eyes on him, up and down, up and down, like he’s a particularly interesting piece of pork. He’s probably thinking,_ why didn’t this smuck’s insides burn up like the others?_ But the thing is, they did, before the frost of his new flesh cocooned him like a caterpillar and saved him, and before the fire spat him back out - a new kind of insect. Bucky doesn’t hold it against him though - smiling and laughing and _happy_ when Dernier kisses him on each cheek and says, “Marchez avec moi comme un ami.” **(“Walk with me as a friend.”) **

  
He staggers along, tries to surround himself in the comforting patter of half formed conversation and away from the sweltering heat, listening to the birds and the crickets chirping. He couldn’t hear the birds on his--_their_ first failed attempt. He palms the small weight still resting in his new pocket.

They’re stopping, someone tells him, they’re taking a moment to check provisions. Someone leads him over to a tree, says he could use some shade, and he stares at the clouds drifting in the sky.

  
It looks peaceful, like most things are outside of honking roads and busy street markets. It’s funny, how he never appreciated it before. Someone tries to set him down next to a tree and he shoves them off because he remembers the deal he made with himself so long ago before and after #Subject 64 died. Let him stay standing, straight-backed and proud like his friend and his father. Let him feel the sun on his face and the cool breeze against his hair; bright and warm and nothing like a damp cell stinking of shit and old carbolic soap. Let him feel the blades of grass, wet with morning dew in-between his toes - the way his ma used to every summer before The Crash like clockwork in the fields of Indiana.

He gets half a boot off and over-balances before someone - the same someone - steadies him from behind.

“What’ you doing, Sarge?” Jones asks warily, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his leg. 

“The grass…” Bucky mumbles, unable to find the words, English or otherwise to describe how inexplicably important it is to feel the grass on his bare feet. He wants to scrunch them in and out, in and out until he sucks in all of Mother Nature through the slices on the soles of his feet. Wants to take his boots off and throw them and the blood, thick and cloying between his toes, off a cliff or maybe at the bottom of a river. He can walk back barefoot, at one with nature in a way he has never been before.

“Right.” Jones says, tries to sound reassuring, “Okay Sarge, okay,” and starts manhandling his shoe back on his foot, waving someone over.

“No…no… I need-”

“What you boys doing over here then?” Dugan asks mid stroll, looking at Jones when Bucky won’t return his gaze, wrestling with Jones over his boot. 

“He’s trying ‘o take his shoes off - _Sarge stop_ \- I don’t know why, he just-” Jones grunts as Bucky elbows him in the ribs, his heel almost free. Dugan brushes a hand against the side of his hot cheek. 

“He’s burning up again, Christ.”

“He won’t stop -_ Sarge seriously_.” Jones snaps at him.

“Barnes! Listen to me…Bucky.” He looks up at his name, still struggling, and his boot falls off before Jones can get another hold of it. ”What you doing man?” Dugan asks him, shaking his head in bewilderment like Bucky’s the one who’s lost his mind.

Bucky almost growls at him. “I told you. I want-”

“Hey ace, how about some water?” Head snapping across to the new voice and the sound of liquid sloshing against metal, Bucky blinks rapidly, eyes on the canteen held aloft in the man’s hands - mouth dry. 

\--------In his distraction Jones steadies the Sergeant at the waist while Dugan takes the opportunity to bend down, clasping a thick hand around Bucky’s shin, and pulls the boot back on with his other hand---------

“Okay ace,” The Japanese soldier with the American accent says, handing him the canteen. “Just filled it up from a river I found across the way. ‘t’s still cold.”

He probably shouldn’t pour this on his head, should he? It’d be a waste (and wouldn’t wash away the chemicals sitting dormant in his blood), and so instead he aims for his mouth and guzzles as much as he can before they take it away from him.

_(They always take it away.)_

Dugan’s lowering his boot-clad foot to the ground, tying his laces - _why was everyone so obsessed with his feet?_

He doesn’t care about anything else other than the canteen in his hand.

“He’s got cuts on his feet,” Dugan murmurs lowly, looking behind Bucky at Jones. “Like someone's cut them up, the bastards. He’s been bleedin’ through his boots.”

Has he? Who cares? _It’s not like you can feel them_, Bucky thinks deliriously, _and what does it matter when you’ve got this liquid gold in your hands; down your throat._

“Il va se rendre malade s’il ne ralentit pas.”** (He’ll make himself sick if he doesn’t slow down.)**

“Easy Sarge,” Jones says when Dernier comes to stand on his left, appearing from the trees, hand going for the canteen. “Take it slow. You’ll make yourself-----”

He spins, and punches Jones in the solar plexus. 

“Jesus Christ!”

Unsteady as he is the punch is still strong and desperate and he’s_ angry._ Bent over from where he’s stumbled forwards away from everyone, Bucky clings to the canteen. He not letting anyone have it. This is the most water he’d had in as long as he can remember and he is not giving it up.

Jones is coughing and gasping, Dugan and Dernier hovering at his side from where they’d shot up, helping him stand upright. The Japanese-American solider, the one Bucky now remembers introducing himself as Jim Morita,_ how you doing? You take any smokes from the Krauts before you killed em?_ \- is stood between them, hands held out entreatingly.

“---- What ---- the --_\---fuck ----- Barnes_ \-----”

“You son of a bitch -----Jones you alright?”

Bucky steps back, stumbling, when Morita seems to move forward before freezing and raising his hands higher. ”Easy man, take it easy. You’re good, we just don’t want you throwing up later.”

“Nous ne vous le prendrons pas.” **(We won’t take it away from you**.) Dernier says from behind. Bucky watches them distrustfully, and backs away further until he’s behind the tree and facing away from them - brings the canteen to his lips and starting gulping it down again.

“We’re getting ready to move out again boys…Everything okay over here?”

_Jesus, would everyone just leave him alone?_ He was fine, he was fine; just leave him alone with the dawning sun and the trees and his water and he’d be fine. _Just let him be_, for Christs sake, for five fucking minutes while he drowned the fever out of himself. 

He can feel Morita’s eyes warily fixed on what’s visible of him behind the tree, “You might want to come back to us in five on that one, Cap.”

“Peut-être plus,” (**Maybe longer,**) Dernier murmurs behind him. Bucky backs himself further against the tree, tips his head back and locks his knees; hiding. 

“Why, what’s going on? What happened there…where's_-_-?”

“I’m pretty sure your Jimmy-boy just broke his ribs,” Dugan snaps, interrupting, hand on Jones’ shoulder, “that’s what just happened.”

Steve seems to blanch, “Wait what----where’s----?”

Dernier says, “Là-bas capitaine,” (**Over there Captain,**) and Bucky hears leaves crunching underfoot as someone turns his way, followed by a long moment of silence aside from Jones’ quietening coughs.

Steve says, “You soldiers give us a minute? Sit him,” - Jones he means - “somewhere, get him something to drink. There’s medic around here somewhere.”

“It’s alright Captain, I should be all good.” Jones replies, voice strained. Bucky doesn’t dare turn round the tree to look at him.

“Even so, get checked out anyway, Private.”

Everyone begins shuffling off until the leaves rustling in the wind and murmurs of conversation from soldiers across the way are the only sounds he can hear. He can’t see the drifting clouds through the tree-bed above him anymore.

“Buck?” Steve asks calmly; carefully. Bucky can feel himself panting, and presses the canteen to his lips again to drain it’s last mouthful and let the vestiges drip against his face. Is he sweating? “Buck, talk to me.”

He closes his eyes, chest heaving. He just needs a minute._ Give me a minute Steve, I’m okay._

“You don’t seem okay.” When did Steve learn to read minds -_ was this another fantastical ability?_ \- or maybe he had said it aloud? Steve pushes the hair off his forehead, coming round to his side of the tree. His hand’s cool, but not cold as he’d expected - what season was it - which feels blissful against his sweaty forehead. Bucky sighs in contentment. “You’ve got a fever.”

Steve’s frowning unhappily at him when he opens his eyes.

“So’ve you.” Bucky murmurs back conspiratorially, still pleased that Steve’s here, come to get him, in whatever form he comes in. The frown between his eyebrows, above his honker of a nose, deepens self-consciously.

“No I don’t,” he says, his voice unsure. “At least I don’t think I------”

“You’ve always got a fever.” Bucky continues as if he hasn’t spoken, eyes drifting closed. The most important thing, the most important thing in the world, is he still has his canteen. “Always in winter--from the cold, whether we can afford heating or not. You always…you’ve always got a fever in winter ------ it is Winter right?”

Steve squeezes the back of his neck, fingers reaching all the way round. They couldn’t do that before. “Yeah Buck, it’s still winter.”

Bucky hums, “How long,” he coughs, clearing his throat. “How long until Spring?”

“It’s still November so ---”

“I didn’t miss Christmas then?”

There’s a sad pause, and Bucky can feel Steve’s upset in the air around them. “No Buck,” Steve replies quietly, “you didn’t miss Christmas.”

Bucky swats at Steve’s chest ineffectively. “Stop.” He tells him.

“Stop what?”

“Can feel you frowning at me. Stop it.” Bucky opens his eyes and, yep guess what; frown central, _what is this, a dramatic scene with Scarlet O’Hara?_ He raises his free hand, fingers poised to smooth away the wrinkle. Steve catches his wrist gently, other hand on the canteen Bucky’s just swatted at him with. He tightens his fingers reflexively.

Steve’s eyes flick from his face to his hand and back again. ”It’s empty, pal.” Bucky tugs it back stubbornly and Steve releases his hold, good guy that he is. “ ‘s that what this was about? They tried to take the water back? That why you slugged, what’s ‘s name - Jones?”

Looking away Bucky shrugs, feeling that he should be embarrassed or guilty, probably both - but isn’t. “I just….” 

He doesn’t know how to finish, how to put in words that everything feels like he’s underwater during bath-time, the water hot and stifling but slightly murky from his sisters’ washes before; his parents stubbornly reusing the water. How to explain how he feels scrubbed raw from his pa’s unintentional harsh ministrations - but not clean. How he can’t think outside of that he’s hot, tired, dizzy and someone had given him water and then _tried to take it away_. It’s the worst thing they can do to him outside of locking him back in a dark cell curled up in a ball or strapping him back down flat - and _why couldn’t they see that?_ Why couldn’t they stop touching him and telling him to lie down and stopping him from doing the things he wanted to do. He doesn’t want to sit down and he doesn’t want to lie down (that’s when they strap him down, he can’t move when he’s strapped down). 

He wants to stay standing and moving even when he’s down for the count, like #Subject 64 and like his pa on the African plains the year before, walking two miles on a broken leg and still raising his gun when the enemy came back ‘a’ knockin’. He wants to take his fucking shoes off.

“I was thirsty.” He finishes inadequately; lamely.

“I can fill it back up again before we go like with the others. There’s a fresh river just over there,” Steve replies positively, motioning over his shoulder. “It’ll be quick, no time at all.”

He hovers his hand back over the canteen but doesn’t touch. Bucky’s fingers stay firm and he shakes his head, wipes what he thinks is sweat from his brow. “No I’m…its-----” 

Bucky stops speaking as some Limey, a Lieutenant or something of some kind, starts shouting everyone to attention, eyes sliding over to Steve’s now bulky frame visible through the trees. “Alright lads, pack it up again----” 

He stops listening, and says to Steve, “I think you should go, they’ll need you to coordinate.”

“I’ll go in a moment.” Steve replies distractedly, frowning at his left ear. Feeling an itch Bucky scratches at it self-consciously and dry brown blood sheds off his skin and sticks under his nails like dandruff. He needs to distract Steve.

“You’re the commanding officer, aren’t you?”

“Technically I’m not actually a Captain…”

“But they think you are - that’s what matters - you need to go.”

Steve sighs, turns his head by the chin so they’re facing each other again. “Are you sure you don’t want to----”

“I’m not lying back down and don’t you ask me to.” _Don’t you dare ask me to, Steve._

“There’s some room on the trucks - and there’s the tank----”

_“Steve.”_

His best friend huffs in annoyance, crouches down a little so he can look him in the eyes again for a moment and tracks his pupils. “You’re a stubborn asshole sometimes, you know that?”

“Says you.” He shoots back, wobbling a little when he pushes away from the tree. Steve takes his hand gently, tugs him back to their self-made road and lets go just before the clearing as they come into view. 

“I’m gonna go see if I can find you something to eat, yeah? Get something in your stomach.” Steve says as the Limey calls him over, his eyes catching on Bucky’s exposed collar bone. He tugs his eyes away, turning, “One of you boys okay to keep him company for a bit again?”

Dernier steps forward. “Oui, Captaine'.”

Steve nods to him, pats Bucky on the shoulder reassuringly and jogs over to speak to the Lieutenant-man-person. 

“Vous sentez-vous...better?”** (Are you feeling better?)**

Bucky blinks at the man, falling into step - albeit slightly slower - as the engines around them start up again, and then watches his feet take one step in front of the other. He musters himself; answers in silting French. ”Pas vraiment. Mais c’est bien d’être au soleil.”** (Not really. But it’s nice to be in the sun.)**

Dernier jolts at his response, looking pleased despite his atrocious accent. He slows his pace to match Bucky’s, watching Bucky watch his feet. “Oui, oui!” He replies, grinning and speaking slower so Bucky can follow. “J’ai manqué le soleil aussi, les arbres aussi. Je pensais ne plus jamais respirer l’air frais - c’est James, oui? Votre prénom?” **(Yes yes! I have missed the sun too, the trees too. I thought I'd never breathe fresh air again - it is James, yes? Your first name?)**

“Tout le monde m’appelle Bucky.”** (Everyone just calls me Bucky)**

Dernier laughs, “Trop de James, hein? Je connais tant de Jacques à Lyon que ma femme criait et tous les hommes de la rue se tournaient pour répondre... C’est bien de revoir ton visage.” ** (Too many James', yes? I know so many Jacques in Lyon my wife would shout and every man on the street would turn to answer...It is nice to see your face again.)** He finishes, the_ glad I didn’t have to burn you too lying unspoken between them_, though Bucky supposes he could be being overly paranoid.

He looks up from his feet to see Dernier with his hand out, nodding at him with a smile, a second introduction. He shakes his hand, and his smile isn’t as thin on his face this time round. “You too, Jacques. You too.”

The Frenchman starts up a comfortable one-sided conversation beside him, which Bucky follows sparingly now he isn’t committing his concentration solely on the French translation, but Dernier doesn’t seem to mind. He spares a moment to mutter a ‘Sorry Jones’ when the man falls back to answer a question.

The man merely slaps him on the shoulder, sending him swaying a foot sideways, with a “No hard feelings, Sarge. Guess you’re as good with your fists as you are with a rifle.”

“I should hope so too,” the familiar voice says as his friend jogs back over, motioning with his thumb at Bucky. “We've got a three-time Welterweight boxing champion over here, did you know that?” He turns to Bucky and passes over a German bread ration with _knackebrot_ printed on the front, along with a bag of lemoned candies. “One of the guys from the 107th pulled these off a guard, figured it be quicker than unpacking the trucks to find the food. Here, take it.”

He looks to the_ knackebrot_ ration to Steve nodding at him in encouragement and back to the ration, his stomach feeling tight and queasy. He slips them into the pocket without the hole in, ignoring the look on Steve’s face. “Thanks.” He pauses, a thought occurring to him, wiping his forehead again whilst he curls his arm around his stomach. “Where’s my gun gone?”

“What gun, Sarge?”

“I had a…on the stairs. Steve you know, we took them from the…” he waves his arm in explanation, trailing off; Steve will know what he means.

“Ugh,” Steve replies, looking shifty. “You dropped it Buck.”

“What----I dropped it?” He asks disbelievingly. “When?”

“You,” Steve clears his throat, starts walking to keep pace with them. “You tripped and pulled the trigger by accident, remember? I think you were dizzy, and then you dropped it. Then you passed out.”

“Oh.” Bucky says, embarrassed. He doesn’t remember that at all, but can believe it now that he’s heard it. There’s quite a few things he doesn’t remember, like how Private Campbell died for one - _yes you do_ \- and he tries not to think about it, stomach squirming. “Can I have yours?”

“Um.” Steve has on the face says ‘no, but-I-don’t-want-to-tell-you-no’. _Well fuck me,_ Bucky thinks,_ it’s normally me wearing that face like a second skin _(another face living under his skin like a demon, ready and waiting to peel off _\- don’t think about that either). _

“Why not?” Bucky challenges.

Dugan clears his throat behind them. “Walk in a straight line Jimmy, and ask us that again in an hour.”

Bucky spins, ready to glare the doubt right off the guy’s face and do something else too, and overbalances. Steve catches him round the waist before he can fall under the wheels of the moving truck bracketing the side of them. “Whoa easy!” Steve says out loud, mutters a “Seriously, Buck? Come on, pal” in his ear as he rights him.

He can hear Dugan snorting, “I think that says it all Jimmy-boy.”

“Fuck off!” Bucky snarls, unable to control his temper with Steve’s arm still around his middle - who hisses a “Buck!” in warning. Dugan merely raises an eyebrow, looking amused.

“Does he normally go cross-eyed when he’s being pissy or is this a new development?”

_(Do you normally scream so much when a doctor gives you a shot, Sergeant, or is this a new development? Now tell me, does this feel hot or cold?)_

Bucky turns away, shaking with anger and nausea both. He shakes Steve off and throws an arm out to steady himself when he misses a step. His legs hurt, his back aches, he feels sick and his hands won’t stop trembling.

He can’t sit down. He can’t sit down.

.

STEVE

He’s worried about Bucky.

The journey back to base is painfully slow, slower than he likes with a hundred semi-wounded men and the rest suffering from a combination of exhaustion and starvation, especially on the winding road off the beaten track the Italian Resistance member has led them down. The temperature drops and Steve makes a point of trying to get Bucky to put on his jacket, not that his friend’s having any of it. Just keeps snapping that he’s too hot and keeps pushing away from everyone’s hands whenever they come too close. And as much as Steve hates it, he had to agree - his friend’s sweating and Steve can feel the heat coming off him from feet away. He resolves to keep an eye on him - what else has he tried to do since this started - and slip the jacket on when Bucky isn’t paying attention. God knows there has already been moments where it looked as though Bucky was somewhere else far away in his own head, or not focused on anything but moving - as terrifying as that was.

As annoying as it was too -

Bucky wouldn’t sit down for a moment, let alone rest up; kept saying he could and would keep walking. _So shut up Steve._ After the third time he keeps up this mantra, mumbling under his breath and to Steve over and over as if he’s forgotten he’s spoken the second beforehand, Steve has to stop him.

He’s bleeding from his left ear.

That’s what’s worrying Steve the most; that and the blazing fever that seems to be getting better and worse in spades like a Vivaldi symphony. He keeps swatting at the air around the same ear as though there’s an errant fly, not that he thinks Bucky has noticed himself doing it, and rubbing at his left eye socket until the skin and white of his eye is red and teary.

_What have they done to you?_ Steve thinks, sick and angry at once. What have they done to his sturdy best friend to have him swaying and confused one minute, angry and snappish another, then smiling brazenly at him like he’s the sun the next? It’s as though he can’t seem to decide what face and persona to pull on, and while Steve knows almost all of those personas: family man, ladies man, dancer, fighter, boxer and sleep-grumpy; he doesn’t know this interchangeable person in front of him at the moment.

He wonders if Bucky’s thinking the same about him.

“How we doing, Bucky?”

His friend jolts next to him at his voice, like he’s forgotten it’s been Steve wandering by his side for the last half hour - an unprecedented time period he’s managed to escape from the lead position of the march. “Huh?”

Steve thinks about trying his luck again, what little chance it has of turning his way in this matter. “You want a rest---”

“---No.” Bucky cuts him off, looking stubborn and annoyed, swatting around his ear again.

“How about some water then? Or the rations in your pocket?” 

Let no-one ever say Steve doesn’t go down without a fight.

His friend shakes his head, palms under his eye with the same hand, curling his other tighter round his stomach. “Feel sick.”

“Like you’re gonna’ throw up?”

“Always feel like I’m gonna’ throw up.” Bucky mumbles under his breath, probably thinking Steve can’t hear him. He says, louder, turning to Steve; a brittle smile on his face, “Water maybe.”

A less bright smile: he’s definitely feeling worse. “Sure Buck, here.” Steve says, handing him another canteen and taking the opportunity to check his eyes while he’s at it. Pupils still as wide as saucers; little has changed apart from Bucky’s fever growing higher and his memory growing faultier. Aside from that and the slight sway in his step - and Steve is checking his feet the first chance he gets after what he’d overheard from Dugan an hour before - he’s still moving. Silting and uncomfortable, which all the men are, but still moving. The simple fact is - he shouldn’t be.

Seven men have collapsed so far on the walk - three dead now, hearts and bodies giving up from the mistreatment, and they hadn’t been tortured and experimented on for who knows how long like Bucky had been. He’d seen the inside of that lab, seen everything with his memory as it is now, and he’d seen the needles, the vials of green and yellow and most importantly _unused blue serum._ And he’d seen meticulously labelled vials of blood marked before and after, different subject numbers on each pair.

He knows what Schmitt and his Doctor were trying to recreate, and quite possibly had managed some part of it - because _goddammit_ Bucky should not be walking.

“I want a gun.”

Steve sighs again; this argument was old by the fourth time he’s had it, let alone what now was the sixth. “We’ve got armed guys on either side and the front and back of the march, and we haven’t had any firefights-”

“-So far-”

“So far,” Steve allows, “So until then try not to worry yeah?”

“I want a gun, Steve.”

His friend still isn’t steady on his feet and right now Steve doesn’t trust him not to turn and shoot one of theirs accidentally if he startles. Steve has already seen him go for where his holster would be when a bird flew out of the trees in front of him.

“Not right now.”

“Steve! I-”

“Not right now Bucky!” Steve snaps back loudly, and feels immediately guilty when Bucky clearly tries to restrain a flinch, still not used to Steve’s big size. He keeps looking at his chest before raising it to his face, eyes catching on where Steve’s eyeline used to be. “Just…Not at the moment pal, if we run into any trouble we’ll come back to it.” Steve says, calmer. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“Who thought it would be such a crime to want to defend yourself?” Bucky grouches, half joking and half bitter, face like he’s swallowed a lemon. 

_Jesus Christ, he can’t make this easy, can he?_ _Take the damn apology while you’ve got it Barnes, you stubborn little asshole._ Steve ignores that part of his temper, and bumps his shoulder with Bucky’s, gentle enough that he doesn’t loose his footing. “How about you let me defend you for once, huh? Give you a break from chasing me down from my hare-brained ideas?”

“Doubt I’ll ever get a break from that pal,” Bucky replies back after a moment, shaking himself as a tremor rocks through his whole body. “I mean, Christ, you have eyes don’t you? You do see where we are, what you just did in the middle of Nazi Germany? _Give me a break my arse._”

Steve snorts a laugh. “Half a break then - you don’t need to break anyone’s noses for me anymore at least.”

Bucky blinks at him again, a strange expression on his face. “Right.” He says, and goes quiet.

There’s something wrong with his best friend, and he might be part of the reason.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, yes I am actually alive, how are you all; hope you're all staying safe! New next chapter will be up next week; earlier than this one was - and thanks to all my new readers and new reviewers!
> 
> BALVAS - A Romani good luck charm.
> 
> JANISM - The paragraphs regarding Bucky taking his shoes off and taking in nature is in relation to the belief of Janism. Jainism is a practise – a way of life, which is meant to date back to the 7th century, originating in ancient India. Jainism is practised by the Roma gypsy people where the church and the priest are the Universe and the open fields and sky.
> 
> SCARLET O'HARA: is a fictional character and the protagonist in Margaret Mitchell's 1936 novel Gone with the Wind and in the later film of the same name, from 1939, where she is portrayed by Vivien Leigh.


	13. PART 10 (b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was young, before he met Steve - brave impulsive Steve - he used to be scared of a lot of things. He used to be scared of thunder and his neighbours, Sister Judith and his ma’s scary stories, bullies and cockroaches and for a short amount of time; pigeons, when they’d swarmed him when he was four near the Hudson river. He’d been scared of Becca replacing him, been scared his parents wouldn’t love him anymore, been scared of leaving the house he’d grown up in when the banks lost all their money.
> 
> Then his father had taught him to box, taught him to be a man - ‘you’ll be the man of the house one day, lad’ and he wasn’t scared of bullies anymore. His mother taught him that the thunder was far away and couldn’t hurt him, and that if you cook your neighbours a casserole they’ll spend so much time eating it they’ll forget to call you a hooligan when you pass by their gate. Becca taught him that all sisters are little brats, so really what the heck were you worrying for? And Steve taught him to be brave; even when you were scared - pretend to be brave and they’ll never know the difference.

BUCKY

He’s not sure how it happens.

He’s not sure where was he was before he blacked out, and is not entirely sure where he is when he comes back to himself ---Morita snapping fingers in front of his nose. Steve’s gone. _Where is Steve?_

“Barnes? You hear me?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Dunno pal, he was walking and then just checked out, it’s like no one’s home….doesn’t look like he’s seeing much.”

“Not hearing much either, I reckon.” Morita’s mouth was moving, but the words didn’t seem to sync up. 

“Any ideas, doc?”

He can feel someone pressing down on his wrist, and feel his pulse point pounding in time with his head, rocketing from the back of his eyeballs to the top of his spine - like Mr Douglas hammering in those Godforsaken shelves on the other side of the wall for hours on end. The same someone moves up his arm and rolls his worn shirt up, thin fingers brushing and prodding at the needle tracks there. An unfamiliar face appears in the line of his vision. Morita backs off. The man at his front clicks his fingers in front of his face again, watching his eyes. Bucky blinks slowly.

“Well?” Dugan pesters.

The man does the same either-side of his head, clicking near his ears. Bucky flinches this time, but can’t do anything else; limbs like a deadweight. “He was walking before?” the man questions, his fingers still thumbing at the achy inside of his elbow.

_Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me. I don’t know you, don’t touch me. Don’t touch me._

“Walking and talking in turns, he’d be alright one minute telling me to go shit in a bush somewhere, and tryna take off his shoes the next…”

Bucky can feel himself drifting again, voices washing over him and away, his eyes stuck on the fixed point in front of him. Waking up to find his eyes already open and watering, his body slow and distant like this isn’t new. This has happened before, he knows, on the table and on his cot and in the dank corner, but it’s no less terrifying no matter how many times it happens.

“Clearly not right….was walking but stumbling all over….didn’t notice until we stopped…”

“’ was like he couldn’t hear us or see us……..then realized…..been trembling but didn’t say nothing. We shook him and he let us lead ‘im down here….been staring at us like he’s dead.”

“And he’s had the fever all day?”

_Please let me go. I can’t move. Please let me go._

_(You are not going anywhere Sergeant Barnes, do be quiet, I’m trying to concentrate.)_

He suddenly feels the bile rising up the back of his throat, feels the panic lightening up and down his body when he can’t open his mouth any wider - tries to force and swallow it back down. _He’s going to choke., he's going to---_

He’d thrown up in Zola’s lab before, not the first time and not the last time, but once he threw up whilst strapped down on his back. 

When he was young, before he met Steve - _brave impulsive Steve_ \- he used to be scared of a lot of things. He used to be scared of thunder and his neighbours, Sister Judith and his ma’s scary stories, bullies and cockroaches and for a short amount of time; pigeons, when they’d swarmed him when he was four near the Hudson river. He’d been scared of Becca replacing him, been scared his parents wouldn’t love him anymore, been scared of leaving the house he’d grown up in when the banks lost all their money.

Then his father had taught him to box, taught him to be a man - _‘you’ll be the man of the house one day, lad’_ and he wasn’t scared of bullies anymore. His mother taught him that the thunder was far away and couldn’t hurt him, and that if you cook your neighbours a casserole they’ll spend so much time eating it they’ll forget to call you a hooligan when you pass by their gate. Becca taught him that all sisters are little brats, _so really what the heck were you worrying for?_ And Steve taught him to be brave; even when you were scared - pretend to be brave and they’ll never know the difference.

He forgot to pretend on that table. 

He used to think the worst way to die was by stoning, that was how God punished the infidels and the sodomites after-all, but on that table he realized he was wrong. The worst way to die was drowning, not on water or smoke, but on your own vomit. Zola had turned to look at him, face impassive as he watched and the guards at the door had laughed at him. And he choked and he choked and he sobbed, hot tears streaming down his face and thought: _this is it. This is the end._

_Come get me papa, I want you to take me home._

_I want you to make me brave again like you did before; wrap my knuckles up tight in the morning sun, correct my footwork, and ruffle my hair; fall faux-groaning to the floor as the Great Buchanan seizes victory once again, the sole successor of all bedroom boxing rounds._

_I’m so tired pa, so tired. Come get me._

His pa, God rest his soul, hadn’t come through his begging and sobbing and his choking, but Zola had. He ordered the guards to turn him on his side and strap him back down like that just as Bucky’s vision began blackening at the edges, and for one sickening moment he’d been grateful for the swat little doctor. He’d been so tired, so weak, he hadn’t been able to turn his head to help himself even after they’d removed the machine and he’d stopped bucking against the leather.

He forgot to pretend on the table, but thinks that maybe he can learn to pretend again. After all, his father wasn’t the only one who’d taught him bravery.

“Buck?”

He can see a giant emerging from the glare of the sunset in the corner of his eye, starting forward - wasn’t it just morning? - blonde and tall, bathed in orange and pink like St Michael returning from battle, and honestly, _where was this goddamn smuck getting his suspiciously holy lighting from, some kinda’ magic can?_

_Steve. Steve I feel sick. I can’t move and I think I’m gonna be sick._

Making quick work of the distance between them Steve drops like a stone to his knees - was he sitting down? When did he sit down? Steve grabs his jaw and tugs it towards him almost possessively away from the medic. Bucky’s head lolls too far, ends up staring at Steve’s muddy footprints, and feels his body sliding sideways off the side of the tank he’s leaning against. Steve tugs him back up into the same position, traps his head between his hands; puts himself directly in Bucky’s eyeline. He stares at the green in Steve’s blue eyes, feels his senses sharpen.

“Captain---”

“How long has he been like this?” Steve snaps out, still looking at him but unable to keep the accusation out of his voice. “He wasn’t like this before!”

“We only noticed about twenty minutes ago - but it could have been hours---”

“Could have been----how do you _not notice this?!_” This time, there was a poorly concealed glare on his face when he turned to the men Bucky couldn’t see.

“Well, he was walking Cap, not saying anything - but we figured he just didn’t wanna’ talk. It looked like his fever was going down…” Though Steve held his tongue, _maybe you did listen to your ma occasionally after-all Steve-o,_ it’s clear as day to Bucky that he’s biting back a few choice words about how this was hardly any better than a fever. _I don’t feel any colder,_ Bucky thinks deliriously. 

“He stared straight past us when we stopped him - we called the medic over when we couldn’t snap him out of it.”

“Well, what did you think when you saw him earlier?” Steve asks, turning to the medic next to him as Bucky manages to get his vision to widen. He’s let go of his elbow but Bucky can still feel the weight of the man’s stare on the marks.

The medic, surprise evident, replies, “This is the first time I’ve seen this solider. I knew one had come from that ward but no one pointed him out to me until now.”

Steve’s eyes flash in front of him, “I told him to see a medic before I got called away, he told me after he’d gone with you.” This time he turns to Dugan, and Bucky can see the man grinding his teeth in frustration even at this distance, probably more at him than Steve. _That one’s on me._

“He told me he’d already been seen with you before we found him.”

“Goddammit Bucky!” Steve growls, expression flickering from anger and annoyance to fear and back again. “His ear’s been bleeding, could it be that? Something wrong---- something wrong with his brain?” Steve doesn’t know about the machine; about the electricity, Bucky makes a point of reminding himself. Steve does looks incredibly guilty for some reason though. “If he hit his head?…He could have done...when I jumped I landed on him. It wasn’t gentle, he could have--he could have hit his head.”

_This wasn’t you Steve, you egotistic jerk, this wasn’t you. It’s okay, my ear was already bleeding when you jumped, this wasn’t you. It’ll wear off. It’s worn off before._

“Well he has a bruise,” the medic says, motioning the left side of his forehead, “but I don’t think that's what this is. I can tell he’s drugged to the gills, but I have no idea with what especially from what the rest of you described to me…” 

It was slightly troubling that Steve looked like he did.

“His pupils are blown wide, see, and with this kind of stupor he’s not tracking anything.” the medic continues, and Morita jumps in.

“He was tracking before, when he was talking. Looked confused, like he kept forgetting where he was a few times but he was talking back to us, following the conversation at least---”

Steve shakes his head, “His pupils have been huge from the start, since I….” _since I pulled him from that table._ ”That’s why I wanted him to see a medic.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair; looks stressed in a way he hasn’t been before. Turns back,

“Bucky? Bucky please, how can we help you, pal? What’s going on, huh?” The last part is quieter than the rest.

“He can’t see you Cap.”

“I think he might be able to hear you though.” The medic jumps in, looking for all intents and purposes like he has no idea, despite what he’s saying. _Can’t fault him though,_ Bucky muses tensely, _he’s right._ “Look. I don’t get a reaction when I,” here he snaps his fingers in Bucky’s face again but all Bucky’s stuck on is Steve’s big fat nose, “but when I click by his ears ----”

Click. Click.

Bucky flinches again, twice, his body jerking properly with him this time. _Stop it. _

_Stop it._

Steve’s watching his eyes worriedly. Bucky forces two blinks at him, slow as you like, to get it through Steve’s big head. His friend frames his head between big hands again, frowning; seems to narrow his vision to match Bucky’s. It’s both terrifying and a relief to block out the rest of the world even more than he already is; Steve his eyes and ears. “Buck, can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

_Hallelujah._

Steve lets out a long breath as Bucky does, and looks like he’s going to cry. “Can you move?” Bucky blinks once; he’ll get it.

_Steve._

Pursing his lips, Steve holds his fixed gaze around the uncomfortable silence surrounding them, then turns away. “Falsworth!” He calls; the same Limey comes over. “Can you see that everyone’s settled within the vehicles and organize a perimeter and patrol--”

“We’ve got the patrol Captain,” says Morita, taking the hint and pulling Dernier with him.

“Me too.” Jones.

Steve nods gratefully, turns to the medic. “Set up this area for the wounded, get them as comfortable as possible whether it’s in the trucks, in the tank or on the ground. Whatever’s best. Have a few of the other soldiers check your provisions, tear up shirts if you run out of bandages.”

“Yes sir.”

“Falsworth. We’re just under twenty miles from the base in Krausberg and have about the same or just over to go before we hit the Allied line at least. We’re settling here for the night like we spoke about before it gets too dark. What can we do about the food situation?”

“We’ve got some supplies that survived the battle loaded on the trucks, but now that I’ve looked, it seems like most of them were blown to hell when the watchtower came down. We’ve got some - but not enough to feed four-hundred men. We could ration it again, try to spread it out…”

Steve shakes his head firmly, “No. These men, all of you, need food. No rationing if we can help it, you’re all malnourished enough - how about hunting? Traps?”

“I can do you one better than traps, Cap. Spent every summer hunting with my old man out in Yellowstone as a boy. Leave it with me, we’ll have something before dark.” Steve looks at Dugan in pure relief, and Bucky can almost see with Steve’s eyes earlier as he must have realized the four-hundred men around them were faltering as the hunger crept in with the darkness. 

“Don’t go alone.” Is all he says, trusting the man.

“Oh, I won’t be the only one. There’s bound to be some farm boys round here somewhere - not all of ‘em are city slickers like you two.” Here he nods, seemingly at both of them from the corner of Bucky’s eye, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he leaves, eyes lingering on Bucky.

“Can you see to the organization, get everyone settled in rounds?”

“You’ve got it, Captain.” The Limey with the name Falsworth says.

“Thank you. Dismissed.”

_Good Goddamn Steve, look at you, I knew you had it in you. Shoulda known you can boss a bunch of G.I’s around even when you have no idea what your doing._ Bucky feels like shaking him and laughing with pride.

Steve turns back - they’re finally alone. “Okay Buck, just you and me now. You doing---- you feeling any better at all?”

_No._

He purses his lips again, looking pained, puts himself eye-to-eye once more when he realizes Bucky’s staring at the top of his ear. “Okay. Okay. You just need a moment, yeah? Or maybe a bit longer? Just some quiet.”

Bucky feels like crying. _Yes, yes, yes, finally. Finally someone who gets it,_ he thinks, eyes growing inexplicably hot with tears. 

Steve seems to notice, paws at his neck again. “Just you and me, pal,” his best friend repeats, pulling his right arm up and sliding in behind him; chest to back. Bucky can see the sinking sun, orange on a pink and dusky sky, faded ghosts of Italian mountains far in the distance. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Shoulda’ worked it out earlier really,” Steve speaks in his right ear, the one without dried blood cracking against his earlobe, in a classic Steve not-calm-but-trying-to-be move. “You always used to take yourself off somewhere quiet when you were upset or needed a break from your ma. I used to hear you all the time; climbing through the window out on the fire-escape. Used to lean outta’ my window sometimes to check on you - you know, when…”

_When ma lost her marbles and started throwing things in the apartment, or when she’d bring home a ‘friend’ and take him into his parent’s bedroom while his father was away at the base, leaving Bucky and Becca to look after the twins._

_Yeah Steve, I know. Thank you._

“I didn’t know if you knew that.”

_I did. _

“I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing here.”_ I know that too. You’re doing great._ “I mean, I’ve got Basic under my belt and well, about four months of dance and speech training - can you believe that? ---- apparently I was a little too Brooklyn for em’, wasn’t pronouncing my words well enough to be America’s mascot. You’ll never let me live it down I can already tell,” Steve laughs, “ and with the dancing - at least when you call me a Tinkerbell I'll know you mean it as a compliment with how much of a dead hoofer I was before.” 

_Doubt you could get worse pal, so I’ll take your word for it._

“Bet you I could give you a run for your money now, how’s about that? When we go back state-side, or maybe in a Allied city if we can get you some leave - we go to one of those Jazz clubs you love? I won’t even sit on the sides or at the bar sulking anymore, not now that I’ve got money on it, eh?”

In the shade as they are and not in the hectic centre of the camp, they manage to escape the notice of most of the soldiers as Steve shifts behind him in disquiet at the silence, rocking him forward and settling an arm around his belly. With his other, he takes Bucky’s right hand and lays them down at their sides, clasped together. Bucky stares vacantly ahead at the sun disappearing beyond the hills.

“As long as you need Buck,” he says, squeezing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

STEVE

In the end, he speaks about Doctor Erkstine and the Serum, his training and Peggy. Agent Peggy Carter. He’s speaks about her a lot, probably more than he should, but once he starts he can’t seem to stop - talking about her wit and and her strength, her sarcastic humour and her beauty. “…clever too. I have to say though hand-on-heart, the best moment of my life for the last six months was when she socked Gilmore Hodge in the middle of roll-call. He went down like a sack of potatoes, I swear, like how Charlie McGuiness went down in your second final, you remember? I almost choked on my own tongue. That would not have been a good look in front of the officers on the first day, let me tell you Buck. Christ.” He almost grins at the thought of it.

“You’d like her I think,”_ I hope and pray to God you do,_ he thinks,_ she’s beautiful Buck_._ She’s everything I never thought I’d have, and you’ve always tried to find me a gal, but I guess I found one all on my own._ “She’s the one who helped me come out here, to find you. I found out about the 107th…she told me without knowing, and when Colonel Philips said he’d signed a telegram with your name on it and there was no rescue mission...” He shakes his head, “I couldn’t think of anything but---but bringing you home, one way or another, for your sisters if not for me. They deserved that, after your pop. She stormed her way into my tent, asked me if I was planning on walking there - next thing I know she’d cornered Howard Stark into flying us over enemy lines in a civilian plane and I was pulling open my para-cute.

“She’s something else I’m telling you, it’s like ma always used to say, ‘There are some people who can hear you speak a thousand words and still not understand you. And there are others who will understand you without even saying a word’ Think she might be one of them”.

For years he’d taken that saying to heart, over and over, ignoring his ma telling him _‘you’ve got to actually speak to them Steven, otherwise how are you going to know? Honestly James, what does he think - they’re going to drop out the sky?_’ and through it all had thought that_ yeah, she was right. _

The thing was, he’d found his ‘others’ already, in her and in Bucky, and it wouldn’t have been fair to have another if it meant someone else couldn’t. He didn’t need anyone else. He needed a lot of other things, like new lungs and a new heart and a honest-to-god whole new body if he was being realistic, to help his ma out with the rent and keep her from rubbing her rosary down to nothing every winter - but he didn’t need another person. He had a home, his mother, a photograph of his father on the mantle and a best friend down the hall and up the stairs. He was loved. He was content.

Then his ma had passed, and it hadn’t been quick and it hadn’t been pain free. There had been months leading up to it because after four years working the ward she knew she had it, probably before the doctors did, and took herself off early to the sanatorium; knowing it was probably a death sentence. She hadn’t wanted to infect him, and despite his rages and his begging he knew as much as she did he couldn’t keep Tuberculous away out pure foolhardy stubbornness. He’d been older then, both he and Bucky; whose ma didn’t bother to try to keep him away anymore, and they’d seen her off together; the funeral small and affordable. In the last months of her life that saying of hers had spiralled around and around in his head; wouldn’t shift, because if his ma died he’d be down one of his ‘others’, and did that mean he was getting another one?

_Maybe_, he’d thought for a while once some of the grief had passed and life moved on to a series of poorly held-down jobs one after another. After a year, then two and nearly three and still no one standing up to call for the not-so-great honour, he stopped thinking about it. 

Things had changed recently or so he thought; or maybe they would if things went the way he wanted them to. But for that to happen he needed to get over four-hundred drained and bone-weary men to an Army base nearly fifty more miles away, so the chances were looking a little slim. 

The most important of the four-hundred, his one ‘other’, still living and breathing against all the odds was sat laid-up in front of him and terrifyingly, seemed to be trapped in his own body.

He seemed to be have been trapped in his own head for half the day already, but this, this, this is infinitely so much worse. _He must be so scared,_ Steve can't help but think; knows that his friend is at least semi-aware of his surroundings even if he isn’t able to respond, because Steve had seen the tears welling up in his eyes. 

“What do you reckon, think you can make room in your life for her, I did for what’s her name - Colette and Dot and the others? I mean, it’d only be fair, pal.”

How long have they been sitting here now? An hour? Longer? Or did it just feel that way, in this strange span of time sat with Bucky without his constant yapping? That was something he’d discovered when he and Bucky had moved to their shoebox apartment a few blocks over once his ma had died; the guy, as much as he loved him, _never shut up_. Whether he was running his mouth, whistling a tune, chatting to himself while he did the crossword and Steve ignored him, or tapping his foot to a nonsensical rhythm - he was always making a sound. His most prolific habit was drumming his fingers in complicated melodies against the bedside table, the arm of the couch, or his knee like he was at home at the piano the Barnes’ inherited off his great aunt, and had never sold no matter how far their savings depleted. Steve’s ma used to wonder sometimes to Mrs Mcintosh next door quietly when Steve was supposed to be in bed if Winifred Barnes would let her children starve before selling the antique; the only thing left of her estranged family.

But Debussy melodies and Beethoven’s symphonies echoing through the walls two floors up was a staple of his childhood, as much as the pneumonia and cabbage stew were, and so, he was always glad they never had. 

  
But still, being Bucky’s best friend whilst living a few hallways away and suddenly living with him were two very different things. They grated on each others’ nerves more than they ever had before that first month, with Steve, still grieving his mother’s calming quiet presence unable to deal with Bucky’s pure manic _loud_ energy in his space. His friend had tried, to his credit; had held back from leaving his dirty socks all over the floor and dirty dishes in the sink for a whole two months, what a saint, and had tried to hold back his impulses so Steve could sketch silently. But the truth was - going from a boisterous home of six filled with childish games and big personalities to a single grieving roommate was no easy feat either. Within a few months, with them both employed and with more petty arguments than Steve liked to count, they settled into an easy co-existent life. Steve got used to Bucky’s noise and his dirty laundry, jokingly throwing socks at his head their code for him to pick his junk up; and Bucky got used to Steve’s grumpy morning moods and his awful cooking that stunk up the apartment for days on end. Steve’s pencil scratching on paper and Bucky’s constant tapping and the childish singing of little Lily Barnes when she came to visit became the new staples in his life - and their personalities complimented each other more than they ever had before.

Buck’s noise and energy juxtaposed Steve’s restraint and brought him out of the shell he’d cocooned himself in at his ma’s apartment while she withered away at the sanatorium, and Steve’s steady honesty chilled out Bucky’s more jittery fly-away tenancies he’d developed from his teenage years during the controversial time of the Barnes’ residence. It was good for both of them to get out of that building Steve knew; for him to escape the shadow of his ma’s long-awaited death associated forever in that tenement apartment, and for Bucky to get out and away from the thumb of his mother’s infidelity and father’s feigned ignorance which had been slowly sending him up the walls and out the door for years before.

His friend, already used to Steve’s sometimes unrestrained temper soothed and redirected his anger to safer targets more than ever, or tried, knowing they no longer had a nurse to patch them up back home now. And Bucky already knew enough about Steve’s yearly sicknesses to care unrestrainedly and efficiently for him while bed-bound, even if he wasn’t a whizz at fixing broken noses. 

He continues jabbering on as the sunset turns to dusk, a strange and unfamiliar role reversal and keeps an eye on the soldiers settling down and building several central campfires to the right of them, giving them, intentionally or otherwise, some privacy. He wonders what they think of this, of Bucky for those that don’t already know him or what has happened to him. Or maybe they don’t care; don’t care about anything other than the rabbits the other men have started to bring back few by few - it seems that way. He needs to get Bucky to eat something too.

Bucky’s hand twitches against his. Steve looks back down at their clasped hands, watches as Bucky’s fingers twitch around his again, as though they're regaining their natural reflexes. Steve swallows, hoping against hope that this is it; his best friend coming back to himself.

He squeezes his hand, like he keeps doing when the worry gets too much. He says, “You think you could maybe teach me some more moves - boxing this time, not dancing; like I said I’ve got one left foot instead of two now. Like you taught me before, when you trained me up when I first tried to enlist. I was impatient as hell then, wanting to sign up as quick as possible, and there was so much more you coulda’ taught me. It’s a lot different you know, watching you fight and train when you were fourteen and actually doing it yourself. I’d love that, when you’re feeling more up for it. Maybe you could train me while Agent Carter gives pointers from the side, that would be a right laugh.”

A sound, music to his ears, penetrates the air around them as familiar as Buck’s dirty socks. Bucky grunts, the sound croaky and dry.

“Hey Buck, hey.” He calls, ecstatic. “Hey, you coming back to us, pal? I got you, I got you. You thirsty? I got some water right here.” Keeping that in mind, Steve reaches around to the canteen he has, and tips it gently against Buck’s lips, still holding his other hand. For a moment the water dribbles down past Bucky’s lips and off the tip of his chin onto his lap and Steve grimaces over his shoulder, about to pull the water away……

Bucky starts swallowing, not all of it makes it past his lips but Steve see’s his Adam apple bob, faster and faster as Bucky manages to crack his lips wider and tries to gulp it down. “Easy Buck, take it slow pal, there’s no rush.” He says, aware of how Bucky had reacted earlier to the others with the other canteen. “I won’t take it away. Just take it easy.”

With no response or sign of Bucky slowing down, Steve gets ready to slide himself to Bucky’s front again to check his eyes, and asks, “Bucky, can you still hear me?”

He squeezes Steve’s hand, hard. Steve almost bursts into tears around his smile right then and there - and he’s not the crier out of the two of them. Bucky whines from deep in his throat and chokes, water spraying down his front as he tries to swallow too much. 

“Shit.” Steve curses, lets go of his hand, leans him forward, and starts slapping him on the back. A few heads turn to look but Steve ignores them, keeps slapping Bucky’s back through his coughing the way he used to do for Steve. Bucky whines again; almost a keen, and sounds purely panicked. Steve twists him sharply as he sees liquid rushing back up his throat.

Bucky vomits a second later and it splatters over the half-frozen mud beside them, a few spots landing on Steve’s cargo trousers. He tries not to grimace and twists them both further until Buck’s upper half is hanging sideways from Steve’s arms.

Bucky keeps vomiting, and doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop.

Then he moves.

For the first time in hours, he moves - one arm grabbing panicked at Steve’s. He’s vomiting so much he can’t breathe, Steve realizes, and he turns them fuller so he’s hanging more over his front, trying to coax him through it as calmly as he can. Eventually, finally, he stops. Or the vomit does, Bucky carries on dry heaving - nothing left in his stomach - his whining turning to dry sobs.

“Shh, shh, Bucky, okay shh. It’s okay, you just had to get it all up, yeah? Get all the nasty stuff out.”

_Get all that awful stuff they did to you out. Get all the stuff that’s made you feverish and ill and frozen inside your own body - turned you to a statue - out; get it out._

“Just get it out Buck, you’ll feel better- you’ll feel better I promise.” Steve says, not knowing if it’s true but saying it and lying anyway. Bucky jerks sideways, trying to get free and Steve lets him, only pulling him out of the way of the pile of green-tinged vomit. He falls onto one elbow when his other, his left, gives out on him and crashes harder than Steve wants him to to the ground. Still sobbing, but quieter now, Bucky pants in shuddering breaths, bile and saliva dribbling off his chin.

“That’s it, that’s it Buck.” Steve soothes, hand hovering over his back, and after a moment takes his shoulders in hand and pulls him so he’s sitting up again. Bucky seems to try to fight him, limbs clumsy, until he lets himself be directed like he’d done before. His eyes are closed now. They haven’t been closed in hours. “C’mon, Buck, eyes open, keep em’ open, _look at me, c’mon._” Steve begs, wiping his mouth with a cloth from his pocket and patting his cheek. 

His friend opens his eyes blearily.

“Steve?” He slurs.

Steve cradles Bucky’s head in his palm, “Hey pal. You gonna stay with me?”

Bucky nods, and both hands move, one clasping onto Steve again as his other rises up. Steve thinks he’d going to go for his eye again, but instead he scrambles clumsily for his neck to find the dog-tags there. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He gasps out, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t you apologize, Bucky. _Don’t you dare apologize_, not to me, not for that. I’m just glad your back.” He brushes his fingers over Buck’s arms, his wrecked elbows, his face - he’s still hot but not deliriously so anymore.

“I’m sorry-”

“What did I just say, huh? No apologies.”

Bucky pauses before he deliberately nods at him.

“You still feel sick?” Steve asks, hesitantly handing him the canteen again.

“Not-” Bucky swishes water from Steve’s canteen round in his mouth and spits it back out to wash away the taste, mumbling, “Not as much.”

Steve tries to grin, “See, I told you, you just gotta' get all the bad stuff out; it’s what ma used to always say.”

“Your ma used to say a lot of things.”

“She was always right though.”

Bucky smiles softly, eyes slipping closed; a real honest Bucky Barnes smile, “Yeah, she was.”

_“God, I missed you.”_ Steve bursts, unable to hold it back anymore.

He yanks Bucky into him, trapping one of his friend’s hands between their chests and hugs him until he forgets the sinking feeling in his chest he’s had the moment he found out about the 107th. He hugs him tight enough to squeeze the unwanted drugs and sickness out of his best friend’s body until he’s back to being himself again. Bucky startles for a moment, tensing, then heaves out a breath and lets his head sink into the crook of Steve’s neck, free hand coming up behind to clasp him back.

“I missed you too, Steve.” Bucky mumbles into his skin. He pauses in silence for a few seconds, and Steve revels in this should-be impossible moment. “Even if you are an idiot.”

A laugh bursts out of Steve unintentionally, and he pulls back. “You always have to ruin the moment, don’t you?”

“Only way to keep your head from getting any bigger.” Bucky rebuts automatically in their old routine, thudding back against the tank. He starts numbly scratching at the arm still holding onto his dog-tags.

Steve scoffs.

“It’s a tough lot in life,” Bucky continues, still slightly sluggish, but committed to having the last word, “But someone’s gotta’ do it.”

“Oh, that’s how it is?”

“Way it’s always been, Steve-o, time for you to get with the times. I can’t keep making excuses for you.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one, pal.”

“Guess I learnt from the best then, huh?”

Bucky cracks another smile, eyes closed. “Don’t talk about your ma that way, Steve, God rest her soul. Honestly, the disrespect of youth these days.”

Steve smirks, “I’m older than you by three months, you jerk. And actually I was thinking of _your ma,_ if you must know.”

Bucky kicks him.

Steve’s the only one allowed to joke about Bucky’s ma, not even Becca does it; and Steve does it sparingly, saving it for the best moments.

“You’re such a punk.” Bucky mutters when Steve flicks his other arm to stop him from scratching.

“Takes one to know one, _pal._”

Bucky kicks him again.

Steve catches his foot, still smiling at him, and starts undoing his laces. He gets all the way down to the last one and is about to start pulling the boot off when Bucky says:

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your feet,” Steve answers promptly without bothering to look up at him, not pausing in his movements.

“Why?” Bucky sounds incredulous and tries to pull his foot back purely out of spite. They can be a very spiteful bunch, the Barnes Children, as bad as each other.

“Sergeant Dugan said--” Steve starts, then changes the tone. “You were trying to take your shoes off earlier; figured I might as well see what the big fuss was about.”

Bucky frowns at him, “No, I wasn’t.”

Steve glances up at his face and see’s his confusion is genuine. “You did pal, early this morning.” He contradicts, ticking off another mark in his head of something else Bucky seems to have forgotten. He wants to ask him if Bucky remembers Schmitt’s real face, to confirm for himself that he wasn’t hallucinating like Bucky thought he was inside the base.

Bucky keeps frowning, Steve can feel the weight of it without looking. He asks, “Why would I do that?”

“No idea, so we might as well find out.” Steve shoots back, having to loosen the boot further when he realizes how tightly they’ve been pulled, and tries to wriggle it off once he’s done.

“Screw that.” Bucky utters, trying to pull his foot back again; Steve stubbornly keeps his grip. “You’re just bullshitting me.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.” 

Steve knows better than to try and argue with him, because it’ll won’t get them anywhere and it’ll probably end with Bucky making something up like he does when he thinks he’s losing the argument. Plus, by the time Bucky does respond he’ll already have his way and have the boot off. As the thought strikes it comes off, adding to the smell of four hundred sweaty men confined all in the same space.

“What the hell Steve?”

The ‘bigfoot feet’ comment dies on his lips as he looks at the crumpled bandages hanging loosely off the underside of Bucky’s entire foot, stained red and brown with blood. They’ve come away from the majority of his toes and the underside of his heel, only clinging stubbornly to the arch of his foot. He peels back an edge gently. Instead, he says, “When did this happen?”

Bucky’s face scrunches up self-consciously, and he tries to pull his foot back again. Once more, Steve stays firm. He asks again, “When did this happen?”

Bucky shrugs, looking off to the side, “I dunno’, before, when you came to the factory.” He says vaguely.

“So yesterday?” Steve tries to clarify, “Or the day before? Or before that?”

Bucky huffs, “If that’s when it was, then sure, maybe. What’s it matter anyways?”

Steve lowers Bucky's foot so it’s resting against his knee as he picks the boot back up to put it back on. 

“It matters,” he mumbles to himself under his breath; because he overheard what Dugan said to Morita when he went to get Bucky some rations. And even if Bucky has got his timings mixed up, which is possible, he’d heard Dugan - Bucky’s feet were sliced from heel to biggest toe, practically freshly cut, and he was still bleeding. That was seven hours ago, and Dugan hasn’t spent the day delirious with fever. Bucky’s feet are caked with dry blood and the beginnings of nasty looking blisters; but there’s no cuts; no open surgical slices.

Just pink puckered scars and scabs stretching across the soles instead in the patterns, from heel to biggest toe, that he’d expected. With Steve’s now perfect vision, he can see older, thinner silvered scars crisscrossing the new; scars that look years old that Steve knows weren’t there before.

“What did you say?”

Steve looks at him and shakes his head, “Nothing. Never mind.” He answers and slides a hanky into Bucky’s boot as a clean layer before he pulls his friend’s foot back into the shoe. Dugan was right, from the state of the insides he was bleeding through his boots;_ but not anymore._ He flicks his eyes around them to make sure no one has seen; he has no idea how to explain this.

Bucky yanks his foot back, finally succeeding, and mutters a couple of curses and a vague insult in Steve’s direction. Steve winces on his behalf as he yanks on the laces almost violently, clearly embarrassed. 

“Yeah well, you knew that about me already. So you shouldn’t be surprised.” It falls flatter than the others did. He desperately wants to check the other foot and line that boot with another hanky too; but knows Bucky won’t even hear of it, let alone let him do it.

“My feet are fine.” He says, struggling to tie his laces. _Like the rest of me_, goes unsaid.

_Liar._

Steve smiles shallowly at him, “I can see that. I feel better, now that I’ve checked.”

Bucky snorts, “Yeah you look it,” he says, then clearly tries to distract Steve in a move Steve knows well. “So a Cartier or something, right?”

Steve huffs around a forced smile. “Carter.” He corrects, knowing full well as Bucky does that his friend already knows her actual name. He allows Bucky’s distraction to slide, and tells himself this is the last time. “Agent Peggy Carter. You heard all of that then?”

His friend ignores the second part, and he laughs in bewilderment, ”Dames are ‘agents’ now?”

Steve bristles a little and snaps out, “This one is.”

“Take it easy. It was just a question.” Bucky holds his hands up, wincing a little when he bends one elbow too much. He grimaces before bravely lowering his arm and pats the ground next to him. “Tell me more?”

It doesn’t look like an effort to distract Steve anymore; he looks genuine.

“I already told you a bunch.”

“So? Tell me more,” he shoots back, canting his head and scratching at the back of his neck. “I always told you about mine.”

Steve rolls his eyes, giving him a look. “Yeah, normally more than I ever wanted to know.”

“That’s how I know you’re a true friend, you complained but you only left the room once. Plus, they were---”

_“They were not lessons.”_ Steve cuts him off dully, before he can say it. “And they weren’t appreciated.”

“Shame.” Bucky replies, and smacks the ground again, not looking embarrassed or guilty in the slightest. “But I still told you it all, so it’s time to repay the favour. So sit the fuck down and tell me about ‘Agent Peggy-the-queen-of-england-and-the-love-of-your-life-Carter.”

Steve rolls his eyes again and stands, “I take it back, I didn’t miss you.”

Bucky grins toothily at him, only a hint of drugged haze still peeking through, “Yes you did.”

Steve can’t repress a smile.

“Now I said---”

“Not here, I’m not sitting next to your vomit;” he eyes the splattered pile, the unnatural green tinge and thick residue in it. “We’ll go near a fire, where it’s warm.”

Bucky blinks and looks down at it too, “Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot it’s not normal to--” He clears his throat, and takes Steve’s hand as he carefully pulls him to his feet. “And then you’ll tell me about your new sweetheart?”

Steve stops him scratching again and herds him, stumbling, to the nearest fire circle as the darkness of dusk finally creeps in, confirms: “And then I’ll tell you more about her --- and she’s not my sweetheart.”

“But you want her to be?” Bucky waggles his eyebrows suggestively at him, _“Oh Steve,_ marry me Steve Rodgers, _get down on one knee and-_\--”

“Shut the fuck up, Bucky.” Steve says, and shoves him gently, smiling at Bucky’s gleeful (drugged) laugh before he starts up again.

. . .

“And you haven’t kissed her?”

“No.”

“But you want to - obviously you do, look at you Christ; so I take it you and her also haven’t--”

“No. We haven’t done that either.”

Bucky squints at him, “You have actually spoken to her right?”

Steve smacks him, “Of course I have! I told you she was the one--”

“Okay, okay! I was just checking, cool your chops. Well, have you flirted in these ‘talks’?”

“Yeah.” Steve replies, nodding, and remembers the letter asking for advice he’d torn up in his dressing room. Having it in person is so much better. “Or, well, yeah -_ no I did._ I tried to flirt and---”

Bucky groans into his hands, “You_ tried_ to flirt?”

Steve gapes at him, “Well I wouldn’t say it like that--”

“Did you, or have you ever, listened to a single piece of advice I’ve given you?”

“When I wasn’t washing my ears our with soap, you mean?”

“Yes, when you weren’t foolishly sticking your head into the sand.” Bucky agrees, then shakes his head. “You’re useless. Honestly Rodgers, you are absolutely useless - you tried to flirt - I swear to God---”

“Alright, Alright I get it!” Steve laughs, thinking about telling him his concerns about Stark and Peggy fondueing, but decides against it so he doesn’t ruin the moment of Bucky laughing at his expense. “But she wouldn’t have helped me break the law and come rescue you if she didn’t like me back somewhat - and I could tell we had something before the serum.”

“That’s true I suppose,” Bucky allows, starting to scratch at his hair and neck again. He doesn’t seem to notice Steve finally slipping his leather jacket over his shoulders, or snagging his other wrist before he can start with that too. Dugan, whose just finished lugging back an actual fully grown doe to camp, nods at him approvingly. Bucky continues, “We’re getting back to the serum and the ‘volunteering’ later by the way - but the fact she helped you break the law and parachute past enemy lines isn’t filling me with hope about her choice of judgement - _oh god.”_

Bucky goes pale.

“What?” Steve barks out worriedly, both arms reaching for his friend.

_“She helped you break the law and parachute past enemy lines - you_, the guy who once tried to take on _half a baseball team_ for calling one of the nuns an inbred prude. This is terrible.” Bucky says, staring into the fire with a horror-struck expression on his face. “She’s as bad as you.”

Morita sprays water out of his nose across the campfire at Bucky’s face, laughing.

Steve laughs lightly himself, rolling his eyes again, and argues, “You once took on_ all _the Midgely brothers on account of them kicking a stray.”

“That’s different.”

Steve makes a face, “Is it?”

“_Yes._ Because you were _seventy-five pounds soaking wet_ and they_ kicked a dog.”_ Steve snorts under his breath, stray back-alley mutts have always been Bucky’s weakness. “No Steve no, you need a dame who’ll stop you from doing reckless shit, not encourage you!”

“Oh, what?” Steve scoffs, “Like you stop me?”

“I didn’t say I was any good at it!” Bucky bursts into protest and Steve laughs fully this time, comfortable in a way he hasn’t been since Becca’s letter, knocking his and Bucky’s shoulders together.

“Guess you’re doomed, pal. Sorry.”

Bucky mutters, “You could at least sound like you mean it.”

“Why would I, when I don’t?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly. Maybe he can give you some pointers, seeing as your going to need all the help you can get in self-sacrifice to keep me in check now.”

. . .

“So what does she actually do, in this ‘agent’ role?”

Bucky’s questions continue as the hour goes on, ignoring Steve’s attempts to stop him scratching or to get him to eat something by passing the deer meat skewered on a twig to the next man in a mockery of a relay whenever Steve passes him one.

It’s getting old fast; the food relay, but the questions aren’t. His friend, he can see, is obviously excited for him despite the dramatics earlier, and Steve’s touched (like he was with Becca) at Bucky’s unrestrained interest.

“Well she---I don’t actually know.” Steve allows, passing Bucky half-a-rabbit speared on a tree branch. “It’s all classified. I’ve already told you way more than I should have, about me, and the serum and everything.”

Bucky passes this one off again and Steve gives his friend the kind of look he can’t ignore, no matter how much he tries.

“So not just a code-breaker or--”

“She doesn’t work in an office, no. And she can handle herself; I told you about Hodge, but she can shoot too. I’m pretty sure she carries more than one gun on her most of the time too.”

“Careful Cap,” Morita quips, “you don’t want to give him another heart attack.”

“We’re passed that, pal. He’s been giving me heart attacks since we were fifteen.” Bucky shoots across, a small edge to his voice Steve thinks might be due to the interruption. Something seems to occur to him, “Do you actually know anything about her?”

Steve smacks him on the thigh, affronted. “Of course I do. She’s waiting for---” _Waiting for the right partner too, she likes dancing, she cares about her career and the war, she’s compassionate and she’s kind to both of his selves; small and large. I’m pretty sure she’d already lost someone in this fight, someone important, even though she hasn’t told me as much._ But he doesn’t want to, can’t, _won’t_ break Peggy’s confidence and privacy like that in front of all these other men. Maybe not even all of it to just Bucky, who makes him laugh and is always good to him, but doesn’t have the quiet impassioned understanding he, Peggy and his ma used to have. “I know stuff about her.”

Bucky, at least somewhat seems to understand the first cut off part of his silent confession as the other men try to rally him into speaking more; having heard the start of that phrasing before, and he nods to himself before looking down, seeming to smile.

He waves the others off as Dugan plants himself heavily on Bucky’s other side, holding more pieces of meat that Steve can see is now being passed around with some German rations throughout their camp stretching across the dark horizon. He passes one to Bucky and chomps down on his. He orders gruffly, “Get goddamn chewing Jimmy” In-between bites.

“I told you, stop calling me that.” Bucky replies and stupidly, tries to pass it off to the other-side to Steve without seeming to realize. 

Steve looks at him, eyebrows raised, “Not happening, pal. Eat up.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You think I give a shit?” Dugan snaps with no nonsense. “Eat it or keel over, and then I’ll make you eat it anyway.”

Bucky seems to jerk at the idea of being force-fed, but then takes an unhappy, feeble bite.

“Take it slow,” Steve advises, remembering what Bates the medic said to him earlier before they settled and food became a priority. “Then you shouldn't throw up again. That goes for all of you.” He adds for good measure, louder. “Like with water, if you eat too fast when you haven’t been getting food regularly you’ll just make yourselves sick.”

Dugan hisses through his teeth, “Tough order that Cap,” he says, grinning, “I could eat for years and years.”

“Do it slowly and you might make it to your fiftieth.”

“As long as I get to keep eating then that’s good enough for me, ha. You should eat too Captain, you’ve barely stopped all night and day.”

In answer, before he can stop himself, his stomach rumbles almost painfully. He hasn’t eaten since before the USO show. Bucky offers him his silently, like he always used to try to do during winter when money was tight and heating scarce. 

“Not a chance.” He admonishes from the side of his mouth as he accepts and thanks another solider who passes him a serving. “Keep eating,” he orders, “there’s water by your foot if you need it. And stop scratching.”

“So goddamn bossy,” Bucky mutters, fingers clenching and flexing self-consciously. He gingerly takes another bite of the meat like it’ll come back to life and bite him instead. Steve watches him take three more before he starts his, satisfied.

For a few minutes, their entire camp is silent as the majority of the men, bar those on patrol for the moment, dig into their fresh hunt. It’s surprisingly peaceful, listening to the men’s grateful grunts and chewing, with the fires crackling as a second backdrop. He barely even notices the evening midges buzzing around. 

It’s been such a long fifty-something hours when Steve thinks back, and lets his mind finally cool off completely since it all started. Since he was booed off the stage and spoke to Peggy, then Colonel Philips, then Peggy again. Since he went up in that plane and jumped out of it, ran eight miles to the Hydra base and however long inside of it; freeing men, fighting and stealing his best friend back like a hero of old childhood fairy tales. Since he brought that watchtower down and people started looking at him like he was a God, and watched Bucky walk nearly twenty miles, delirious and dazed, on apparently ruined feet. Since he spent a whole night and day with no sleep, ordering around officers and leading four-hundred men home through the Austrian landscape.

It’s been a long couple of days.

And for the first time since coming out of Stark’s machine and coming out with Erksine’s serum in his blood, he feels exhausted; physically and mentally. He still can’t quite believe he’s done it - just fifty something more miles to go.

Bucky rocks his shoulder into Steve’s, the meat on his lap. Steve goes to tell him to keep eating, again, but Bucky speaks before he can, looking him dead in the eye.

“I’m happy for you, Steve.” He says quietly, so none of the others can hear them. “I’m happy for you.”

  
Steve smiles at him, grateful in a way he won’t understand, “Thanks Buck.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, with a rather long chapter this time. As promised, Steve and Bucky manage a few moments alone as Bucky finally starts to feel more himself. The drugs are wearing off, but will it be that easy? There's a long walk ahead of them, maybe with a few road blocks on the way. Enjoy!
> 
> NOTES & REFERENCES
> 
> DEAD HOOFER : Slang for a terrible dancer; someone who has two left feet.  
TINKERBELL : A solider calls this Steve during the scene of is USO show in Italy, before he finds out about the missing 107th.  
CATHOLIC REFERENCES: Once again there are several references to the Bible and characters/saints particularly when Bucky thinks about ‘stoning’ along with a comparison to Michael (the first archangel) as he is typically depicted with rays of sun behind him; usually in stained glass or icon illustrations.


	14. PART 10 (c.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve leans back into him and tilts his head up to look at the stars with him. “What are you looking for?”
> 
> “The North Star.”
> 
> Steve points out the biggest and brightest star and Bucky hums noncommittal. 
> 
> “Do you know any more?” He asks, knowing Steve does.
> 
> Steve points out the Ursa Major, the Canis Major and Orion and Perseus and the shapes and characteristics of each, until Bucky drifts off against his side. He looks down at his friend, smiling sadly, and lowers him down gently onto his side near the fires warmth, slipping a pack under his head. “Goodnight Bucky. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

. . .

_(MOST IMMEDIATE. Krausberg Base destroyed. Forward onto Herr. S8, T9, and R5 and others. Divert all shipments to 32000298857 CYCLONE 747. Herr Red Skull to be expected. Lock Project Mastermann; await instructions.)_

_(SENDER: HERR. A ZOLA RECIPIENT: VISCOUNT)_

. . .

STEVE

  
Dusk becomes night quickly and darkly, and the two deer and collection of rabbits dwindle just as quick until only the furs and bones are left. The men start handing around German rations, sharing them one per group of six to make them last. 

Despite the meat it’s in many ways still a meagre portion and Steve’s continues on, quietly hungry. His stomach’s stopped growling at least, but he can feel the hunger pains clenching and churning in his belly. He can tell the men feel the same, and that some of them are a little sore that the wounded soldiers have been given extra - if not full - shares to keep them going.

When he comes back from checking the perimeter to switch the men out so they can eat theirs, and checking on the wounded laid up on the backs of trucks, he’s furious to find out someone confronted Bucky about the bread ration still in his pocket from earlier in the day.

He’s almost just as furious to find out Bucky gave it up without a fight.

In the commotion; apparently Jones saw the solider take it and raised issue - which hadn’t gone well with his race and all - Bucky has disappeared. He’s out of sight for the the first time since they left the base.

Steve’s swearing and pacing, checking every face standing, sitting and lying down as Sergeant Dugan does the same on the other side of the camp, running his hands through his hair and across his jaw, trying to find his friend. Bucky was more lucid at dinner than he has been all day, but the fever still hasn’t been flushed out and from how miserable he still looked when Steve left him by the fire, he’s obviously feeling rough from some kind of comedown.

Or withdrawal, Steve’s mind stills as the thought hits, because Bucky was in that lab for nearly seven weeks, they think, and from the tube and the state of his elbows and hands and neck; _and his everywhere;_ who knows how many times he’s been dosed up - if there was even a time where he wasn’t.

Steve knows about opioid addiction; one of the doctors from Kingsbrook hospital his ma was friendly with for a time became addicted to the stuff, and was fired (or arrested, Steve can’t remember) when he accidentally killed a patient while he was hopped up on the stuff. He knows what it can to do the body when someone suddenly goes cold turkey - how the heart pounds and the muscles cramp and the fever flushes make the person either desperately paralyzed with pain and angry for a fix or blinded in disorientation.

If that’s what’s happened, if Bucky’s wandered off and gotten lost, after everything, Steve doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He can’t even go out shouting for him properly, not without risking any German patrols hearing them.

There’s a man standing in the shadow of an oak tree, still within the camp perimeter, but alone and away from all the other men. He has one hand in his pocket, one hand around the dog tags at his neck, and he’s staring at the night sky. Steve recognizes the pose, and the jacket.

“Bucky!” He snaps, and half runs until his body disappears into the shadow of the tree-canopy as well. His friend ignores him, eyes wandering around as he squints at the stars. 

“Bucky!” Steve snaps again as he reaches him, grabbing him by the shoulder. Bucky jolts at the touch, turns fist raised on instinct before he see’s Steve. He lowers it back down, hand returning to his pocket to palm something there, and goes back to staring at the sky. “What the hell Bucky?”

\---He waves at Jones near one of the fire-pits as a signal, and the man nods and goes to find Dugan to tell him to stop searching.---

Steve shakes his friend, still furious, when Bucky doesn’t immediately apologize. That at least seems to get his attention as his eyes snap back from the sky to Steve’s face.

“What?”

“What? _What?_” Steve snaps incredulous, “Are you serious? You can’t just walk off do-ally and disappear---”

“---Last time I checked I was a grown man and I can do what I want.” Bucky retorts, voice going hard. “I’m not a child or a dog for you to call to heel. If I want to go for a walk I’m gonna’ go, and you can’t stop me.”

Steve tries to contain his temper, but knows he hasn’t done a good job of it when Bucky bristles immediately after he starts speaking. “That’s not the point. You can’t just go, just--just walk off--Not without telling anyone, for gods sake what were you--”

Bucky cuts him off again, “Oh, I’m so sorry?” He snaps waspish, sounding anything but. ”I’m sorry I left your mother-hens without asking their permission for _five_ goddamn minutes to myself!”

“You’ve been gone for half an hour at least!”

“_So what?_ Who cares? What, you don’t trust me now?”

“No! You’ve given me no reason!” Steve half-shouts before he can stop himself. 

Bucky flinches back, his face shuttering off. 

He turns away, hand curling around his belly while he seems to almost try and hug himself with the other, staring past Steve stubbornly. Steve’s never seen that expression on his face before.

Steve heaves in a breath, “I’m sorry Buck, I didn’t--I didn’t mean that. I trust you.” He says, and reaches for him.

Bucky dodges the hand.

“I think you should go.”

“Bucky--”

“Leave Steve.” He repeats, voice flat. “Just leave me alone, I need a minute to myself. All I needed was a minute to myself.” He adds quietly, last.

Steve steps back, mollified and ashamed at himself. _That wasn’t fair Rodgers. This isn’t Bucky’s fault, and you do trust him. You know you do, without question, just not his hazy state of mind at the moment._ He swallows, and glances down at Bucky’s not quite empty pocket.

“I heard someone took your bread ration--”

“I said leave, Steve.”

Steve nods to himself, “Okay, okay. I’m going - I’ll be just over there - just, you’ve still got the lemonened candies at least, haven’t you?”

There’s a long pause, “I still have the candies.”

“Good. Good. I’ll go now, and I’ll get you some more rations -- I’m going, I swear.” He switches quickly, hands raised, when he see’s Bucky’s fist clench over his bicep as Steve keeps talking. “I do trust you Buck. I do.” He says quietly. “I was just worried. I didn’t mean it.”

He wanders back into the centre of camp; thinks about settling by the largest fire-pit in easy sight, but realizes he needs a walk and a moment to himself too. For nothing else to do he wanders back and see’s Bates still moving about - and watches him close a dead man’s unseeing eyes. Steve sucks in another breath through his nose, breathes out harshly.

“Capitaine?” Jacques Dernier asks, his accent thick as usual, frowning at him worriedly. Is he that obvious?

“Hey Dernier, “ Steve says, before a thought comes to him. “Could you do me a favour -- a um, une faveur?”

“Oui Capitaine,” Dernier answers immediately and puts down whats left of his meal. 

“No no, keep eating -- don’t let me stop you.” Steve immediately starts, waving his hands. Dernier frowns at him quizzically. “It’s only, could you keep an eye on Sergeant Barnes for me - he’s over by that tree. Don’t go over there or anything, or make it obvious; he needs a minute to himself, but if you could--”

“I will…keep an œil (eye) on him, Capitaine.”

Steve smiles thinly, but gratefully at him and his effort to speak in English. “Thank you.”

He leaves, giving Bucky the time he needs, so digs a grave for the dead man and helps Bates bury him as the medic takes his dog tags - A Lance Corporal Fletcher from the British Army - for identification records. There’s around two-hundred and seventy left of the 107th, and twenty of other American units in this camp, with just under eighty British Forces and fourty-five French, along with a couple of dozen civilians from local villages who don’t speak to anyone aside from the resistance fighters in the group. There’s just about four-hundred and fifty of them altogether. Now there’s one less, and probably will be even more losses before they reach safety. Loosing men under your command, whether you know them or not is a hard task to swallow and he understands a little now why Major Falsworth looks haunted and almost desperate for Steve to take charge, and to follow his orders. From speaking to the men he’s heard Falsworth was the only one of his Brigade squad to survive the original Hydra Capture, and how he was their new commander. The British men in particular, especially the platoon that survived where his squad didn’t, have a few things to say about that; a lot of them already having been shipped out to Africa in early 1941.

George Barnes died in Africa during the first three weeks of Operation Torch, and his family never got his body back, the same as Lance Corporal Fletcher’s family won’t get his back - buried deep in the frozen Austrian mud.

He asks Bates if there’s anything he can do, if there’s anything else he needs to try and keep these men alive. The man, who’s attentive while quite shy, goes to deny him, but then seems to change his mind. He tells him one of the men’s legs has become severely infected from catching unlucky machine gun fire in the escape, and if they want the man to live they’ll need to take his leg.

“Can you hold him down while I do it?” Bates asks, young face brave.

That’s how Steve spends the next hour, encouraging the man to bite down on his belt, pushing him down while the medic saws off his dying leg below the knee with no pain relief. It’s a bloody and awful job, even after the man passes out and stops begging, but Bates tells him as long as they keep the wound clean the man is likely to live - a cripple - but he’ll live. That almost vindication settles in Steve’s stomach and allows him to feel useful; a good man if a terrible friend, for tonight at least. 

He returns to the largest fire after checking in with the patrols again before he runs out of distractions and sits; starts scratching out the Italian mountains in the distance in the dirt with a stick. Most of the other men, aside from those obsessively counting ammo have settled down and curled up in the warmth near the other fire-pits - attempting some shut-eye.

He’s gotten to drawing an imagined fort on one of the mountains when Dernier gets up from across the fire and nods at him as he leaves.

“Bonne nuit Capitiane.” (“Goodnight Captain.”)

Steve nods back and keeps drawing as Bucky plops down beside him, still wearing his jacket; one arm curled around himself. He looks pale in the firelight, and is scratching weakly at his arm again.

He nods at Steve’s mountain rendition, “Looks terrible.”

“Better than you could do.” Steve responds and Bucky takes his drawing stick from him to start his own. Sharing is caring after all, and that other solider should have known better.

“I’ve gotten you another bread ration. It’s not as full as the last one but---”

“I don’t care about the ration, Steve.”

“Right. Sorry.” He says after a moment, and smiles to himself at Bucky scribbling ‘Barnes and Rodgers were here’ like he used to do on their school desks in the dirt. “Sorry about the other part too. I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

Steve sighs, “I don’t know to be honest - I don’t Bucky, really. It’s not an excuse, and you know how terrible I am at apologies….”

“The worst.” Bucky agrees unreservedly.

“But I am. I’m sorry. I was just upset--angry--_not at you_.” He adds quickly when Bucky looks at him. His friend quirks an eyebrow. “Okay I was, a little, but mostly it was about people taking the food I gave you - even if you didn’t want it. And the fact that I’d left and they’d lost you---”

“They didn’t ‘lose me’. I’m not a----”

“Not a dog. Or a thing to lose and find again. I get that. It’s just,” Steve sighs, “You still have a fever, and I can tell you feel lousy, so don’t try and deny it - and no one knew where you were. I was…I was scared that you’d gotten confused with the fever again and wandered off somewhere. I was worried, and it wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you.”

Bucky nods to himself, adding a fancy but wobbly flourish to the ‘G’ and the ‘S’s’ in the ‘Barnes and Rodgers’. “You’re getting better.” He says at last.

“What?”

“At apologies. You’re getting better.”

Steve harrumphs, “That’s a valuable skill in life I suppose.” he says and takes the stick back from Bucky again. “I do trust you, Buck.”

“Just not very much right now.” 

It’s not a question; more of a statement.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says quietly after, “I wouldn’t trust me much either right now.”

“That doesn’t mean--”

“I know.” Bucky adds, cutting him off and bumping their shoulders together like before. He stays half-leaning into Steve this time, staring blearily at the sky. “I’m sorry I wandered off. I just needed a moment. On my own, you know?”

Steve nods.

“I like the guys, and I get that they’re keeping an eye on me for you---”

“---For them too, not just me.”

“---but it was getting too much. Them being around all the time, touching me and leading me places - always talking - and I know how that sounds coming from me - I just needed a moment on my own to breathe - and to think.”

Steve nods again, finishing his muddy masterpiece. “I get that now. I didn’t quite before - but I get it, even if I don’t completely understand how you’re feeling.”

He glances at Bucky again, watches his friend watching the sky and rubbing at both eyes now. “Why don’t you get some sleep, Buck?”

Bucky shakes his head, “Not tired.” Steve rolls his eyes and Bucky mutters, “Shut up” to the silent reply, then adds, “Not yet.”

Steve leans back into him and tilts his head up to look at the stars with him. “What are you looking for?”

“The North Star.”

Steve points out the biggest and brightest star and Bucky hums noncommittal. 

“Do you know any more?” He asks, knowing Steve does.

Steve points out the Ursa Major, the Canis Major and Orion and Perseus and the shapes and characteristics of each, until Bucky drifts off against his side. He looks down at his friend, smiling sadly, and lowers him down gently onto his side near the fires warmth, slipping a pack under his head. “Goodnight Bucky. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

. . .

BUCKY

_(“He is a Testthema” Zola switches to English. “My test subject." _ _He is Barnes, Sergeant. He is Subject #63 - Bite down---Get out---Let them try an' make ma tongue---you're a great brother. The best._

_Sergeant Barnes?_

_25 Zoll, 14 Zoll; Dick, 11 Zoll unterarm. Call me Bucky._

_"That is enough,” Zola snaps, “We have a schedule to keep to.” ---The best thing when you're scared is to pretend not to be, even when you're shaking, pretend to be brave---Can't hurt you if you're already dead._

_Sergeant Barnes?_

_Does this feel hot or cold? Because we dinnae make any promises ta' each other---_ _Turn it on---‘N’ if that’s what were daein’ James, then it’s Andrew. Go t’ bed, pal.---I'll give them back later-----I won't forget you tomorrow. I'm coming back. (Are you? Will you? No, you're not. I'm alone alone alone. I'll die here. I'll die here; burn burn burning to ashes and dust. I won't rise from the ashes, I am no Phoniex, I am Barnes - Serega--No. I am Subject #63.)_

_If I gave you something for the pain there would be no data to record---Do not shoot! He is Herr Doctor's, do not shoot him! (He is the friend of Steven Grant Rodgers, he is not alone; he is free.)_

_Herr Doctor was right----I am protecting my pup---Lets live for tonight._

_Zola moves into his eyeline, “Sergeant Barnes?” )_

. . .

  
He does and doesn’t feel better the next morning, sleeping both deeply and fitfully at the same time if that’s possible. He doesn’t wake until someone drops an ammo box _right by his head_ and then Dugan shakes him for good measure to get him up and a’tem.

“Christ Jimmy, with how much you were twitching before dawn you wouldn’t think it would be so hard to get you off your lazy arse.”

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, rubbing his eyes. He slept; he must have done from where his waking memory ends with Steve and the Canis Major, but he doesn’t feel well rested. He can’t remember the last time he was - not even when he thinks he slept for three whole drugged days on the table. “Where’s Steve?”

“Up helping load the trucks back up while the rest of us hide the fires and our tracks.”

Bucky snorts, “There’s hundreds of us and we have a tank. I don’t think there’s much chance of hiding our tracks.”

“Gotta try though, don’t we?” Dugan says, bouncing on his feet, and from the five months overseas with him Bucky knows he’s itching for a fire-fight. He yanks him to his feet. Not expecting the force Bucky trips into the guy - grunting at the sharp pinch at the center of his stomach.

“Barnes, you good?”

Bucky grimaces at the ground before he straightens, nodding, and belatedly, forcefully stops himself from scratching at his ear. He’s itchy, like there’s bugs running up and down his skin.

Dugan looks doubtful, “Let’s go get you checked out before we get moving.”

“Get checked out? With the medic? I got checked out yesterday.”

Dugan gives him a look he can’t quite decipher. “You remember that then?” He asks gruffly, as usual, but Bucky can tell he’s discomfited at the fact that Bucky must have been aware that entire time he was absent from his body. “Even so,” he says, “not really. Not properly anyways, we were a little distracted by the…you know.”

Bucky looks away when he tries to catch his eye. 

“Your feet too--”

“My feet are fine.”

“They weren’t when I looked. They were bleeding all over the goddamn place.”

“Steve checked them already; he bandaged them.” Bucky half lies, since it’s semi-true.

“The Captain checked them?” Dugan asks, dubiously.

“When I ‘woke up’ - he must have heard you fretting across camp - he bandaged them up again, washed out the boots--”

“Well you shouldn’t be walking on them. _You shouldn’t be able to._”

_Well shit._

Bucky still doesn’t remember trying to take his shoes off, has no idea what he was thinking if he even was at all, but he has a vague memory of Zola by his feet.

_(I need to investigate whether your rate of healing as remained or regressed.)_

_He’s done it to you before. He could have done it again._ Bucky’s willing to bet, from the way Steve reacted and the lack of pain as the drugs he’s been on have worn off, that he hasn’t regressed.

“I was outta my head yesterday, Dugan.” He tries to reassure, “I didn’t really feel any of it.”

“And now?”

Bucky tries to hide his apprehension, “I’m more distracted by my headache than my feet at the moment. More worried about how _I’m unarmed_ in the middle of_ enemy territory._”

“You’re not having a gun.” Dugan fires back immediately, “and I’m not having this godawful conversation with you again Bucky.”

He closes his mouth without a sound, and thinks with whatever must be on his face Dugan realizes there’s been another lapse in memory somewhere. 

Dugan sniffs in a deep breath, says; “We know what they did to you in there Sarge, what they did to the others. We saw a couple of the bodies, so we understand…we understand what they did…What it must have been like---”

Bucky’s ears white out with cold fury.

“You have no idea what they did to me in there, Dugan.” Bucky cuts him off, voice hard, and takes a step back. Dugan, for once, seems to realize he’s overstepped.

“Bucky--”

“You have _no idea_, none of you do, so don’t you dare tell me that you do; that _you understand what it must have been like - fuck you._”

He reaches out for him and Bucky slaps his hand away harshly, and shoves him almost savagely backwards. There’s enough strength behind it to put the two-hundred pound man on his arse, and he hits the ground with a grunt; his bowler hat falling off.

“Hey! Sarge!” Jones yells twenty meters away, starting forward.

“_Fuck you._” He snarls down at him again, then turns to Jones. “I need him not to be anywhere near me right now.”

He walks away, heart pounding in time with his temper and the slack grip he has on it. 

Calm down. Calm down.

_Screw that, and screw them._ Another voice answers in his head; and he feels like there really is the cliché of an angel and a devil on his shoulder. _He has no idea. Fuck them, fuck Zola, fuck everyone that isn’t you or Subject #64._ Even the subjects before and after for not being Zola’s successes - _fuck them too_ \- maybe then they would have just shot him instead of taking him to that lab and turning him into _this._

Into whatever kind of creature he is now - who murders children, pushes away his friends and who can’t die because he just keeps healing over and over again.

_If I peel off my skin, carve and flay it off, will new flesh grow over the top to complete the metamorphosis into the monster Zola was trying to turn me into?_

Fuck everyone, and fuck himself too.

He can feel himself sucking in sharp breathes as he storms across the camp back to the same oak tree, his anger turning into something else. He lets himself thud against the tree, one arm holding him up; hand splayed flat against the bark. He bends over, panting in anger and pain as his whole body aches and itches, split down the center like he’s been gutted. 

How did he not feel this yesterday? 

Still hissing in harsh breaths through his teeth he lifts his new-for-him shirt up, Steve’s jacket heavy on his shoulders. He’s carved down the center again, like he thought he might have been - from diaphragm to under his slack waistband now - staples layered and pinching. He doesn’t remember Zola cutting him, though he thinks he maybe remembers the vague pain of it from one too many times. The doctor kept stapling, not stitching, but he kept healing so the man had to hack away at the new flesh half the time anyway; so it was all pointless. He remembers the second time more than the first or the third, or apparently the fourth, when he’d woken to find himself already mumbling and swearing he was a ghost looking down as Zola dissected his body like a frog.

He can still feel the clammy hands through the gloves shoved deep inside of him; picking him apart one cycle at a time. He never found out what Zola was dissecting him for, why he kept going back in, it’s one of the few things he never discovered. 

He’s healing around the staples. Slower than his feet by far, this wound is deep and has been clamped and stretched open like a gaping maw, but he’s healing around and over the staples. The flesh is swollen, red; new and it hurts more than he’s used to without a layer of cloudy drugged mist hovering over him like a rain cloud. There’s a thin layer of transluent new skin encompassing the first staple by his ribs.

Subject #64 and Sarah the dog told him not to pull them out - but if he doesn’t his body will keep growing around them like a fungus. He sucks in another breath, his hand starting to shake as he leans against the tree out of sight - _pretend to be brave. Even when you’re scared, pretend to be brave. _

_You’re out, you did it. You’re in the woods, Hansel without Gretel but you made it, you’ve got no reason to be scared anymore._

_Buck up, Barnes._

_Do it for Andrew. Do it for pa. Do it for ma so she can hug you again and you can hold her tight and smell her soap and your own forgiveness._

He needs a knife for the first one, his nails bitten to stumps, so he’ll have to come back to that one. The second and the third though - he clasps his fingertips around the metal and pulls. This one he feels, and he bites his lip as he does it, forcing himself to concentrate hard enough that he can’t feel it.

He once did press-ups and sit-ups with his stomach like this, when the wound was smaller - and clenched it the whole time so he didn’t make a sound - but he realizes now that entire time he still had chemicals in his blood and he doesn’t much anymore. He’s coming down and he’s coming down hard - needs to do this before the trembling and the nausea starts.

He allows himself a small grunt as it comes free, skin puckering pink as blood trickles from the deepest points. To keep his momentum up he goes for the third before he can hesitate. This one bleeds more when it comes loose and he drops it in the dirt; leans forward further so the blood lands on the ground and not on his trousers. No one can see this.

The fourth one - worse, and he can see the surrounding areas of the slice welling up from the deep. He’s not healed enough for the other ones - not yet, he can’t pull them out unless he wants maw himself open again - insides spread wide to the open Austrian air. He thinks about doing it anyway.

“Don’t, dinnae fucking pull them out!” Subject #64 says from inside his pocket and Bucky stops, panting, and lets the blood keep dribbling onto the ground until it stops. _Steve’s gone to all this effort to get you out, it wouldn’t be fair to him if you gut yourself by accident after all of that._

He breathes, alone with his thoughts again like he wanted. He wipes his bloody fingers on some leaves and ducks around the side of the tree when one of their own patrol comes into sight, looking sharp and antsy. The man looks like he’s itching for a fight - trigger happy like Dugan. It’s this that tells him something’s going on.

He peers around the tree at the make-shift camp again with new eyes. The men are half-jogging everywhere, possessed and focused, dragging their feet and stamping out the evidence of the fires - the trucks are getting ready to start up.

He checks his stomach again, wipes that with another leaf, and drags his aching body into a speed-walk until he runs into Morita.

“What’s going on?”

Morita seems to do a double-take at his words, “No one told you?”

“Told me what?” Bucky snaps back, “Why is everyone--”

“A couple of German scouts spotted us about an hour ago, after dawn. Our patrol managed to bring down one of them without firing but the other one got away - which means--”

“The Krauts will know we’re here. Shit. We need to move - get as far away as possible.”

“Yeah, no kidding!” Morita half-shouts, pulling him with him. Bucky winces when Morita’s thumb catches his elbow and almost smacks him in retaliation. “Can you keep up?”

“Of course I---”

“I’m serious Barnes - we’re moving and we’re moving fast, if you can’t keep pace you need to be on a truck.” Morita continues, “No comments, no judgement if you can’t, but you need to tell us or the Captain now if that’s gonna’ be a problem.” He stops Bucky by the tank at the edge of the main circle of trucks. He asks again, “Can you keep up?”

Bucky opens his dry mouth - he promised his pa he’d keep walking - but hesitates as he feels his hands start to tremble. That seems to answer the question for the man he met the day before.

He nods, “On a truck then, ace. Come on.”

He leads Bucky, who can feel goosebumps rising on his skin as the itch gets worse, to one of the half-packed trucks, men moaning in rows of three.

“Bucky!” Steve calls with relief from the other side - tossing a fifty kilogram box of ammunition onto another one with one hand. _Jesus Christ, Steve._ He looks stressed again, oil grease on his cheek.

“We’re getting on a truck, Captain.” Morita tells him.

Steve raises his eyebrows, looking at Bucky. “We are?”

Bucky can’t look at him, embarrassed, and Morita shoves him forward lightly but in a hurry, and he has to catch himself on the side. “He’s smart enough to know and admit when he can’t keep up.” Both he and Steve open their mouths but Morita keeps talking when they do, “and there’s no shame in it. Up Barnes, _now_.”

Bucky grunts painfully as he climbs, his muscles protesting, and feels Steve steady him from behind. He knows by now how it feels to lose - he was an idiot for thinking they’d all allow him to keep having his way. They won’t give him a gun, he can’t keep up and he’s a liability. He knows it and they do too, but he appreciates what Morita’s trying to do in his straightforward way at least, in preserving what little dignity he has left after yesterday.

Bucky bites his tongue to stop the grunt from turning into a moan as his stomach twinges and he slaps his arm around it to hide the blood welling up; turning so he’s sat against the cabin of the truck next to a man with a bullet hole in his side. The man slaps him on he leg in pained camaraderie, flat on his back, even if he can’t immediately see what’s wrong with the new arrival. Bucky doubts he’s going to make it.

“There ace, get comfy. It’ll be a bumpy ride.” Morita says, and slams the back board of the truck up in place and jogs off to help Falsworth rally the last of the men into moving - even some of the officers. Steve pats his shoulder from the side of the truck as he goes to walk past.

“Thanks for the astrology lesson.” Bucky says.

Steve attempts to smile at him, “Maybe if you ever went into the library to actually read something instead of just to distract me, you might have learnt something and actually be able to point out the biggest and brightest star.” Steve winks, conveniently leaving how he could say the exact same to Steve when it came to Maths, and Science and History. “Try to take it easy, yeah? Don’t worry, we’ll be outta’ here and home--back to base in no time.”

Bucky catches him as he goes to hurry away, looks him up and down. “Steve, please,_ please_ pick up a gun. Don’t walk around without one.” He says seriously.

Steve’s eyes soften, “I will.”

“I mean it Steve, you need a gun!”

“I’ll get one!” Steve calls, running off.

Bucky prays to god the punk actually listens to him this time.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Dugan's stepped on a nerve there! Yikes!
> 
> And we're off! Thank you all so much for all the kind comments you gave me on the last one - I hope you'll continue to enjoy (and even be surprised by the direction) of this ongoing fic. To answer a question from one of the comments, I absolutely plan to go on and in depth into the Howler missions; at least to the train. And if you're interested I'm thinking of turning this into a series and carrying onto Winter Solider era as a special and then onto Post Cap 2- Winter Solider canon divergence (as much as I love Civil War), or maybe an Alternative Canon fic too. I'm figuring things out.
> 
> Another thing I'm considering is throwing in some artwork every now and again if I have time; to keep those skills up and going too seeing as I can't do that for work at the moment. If you're for that let me know, and feel free to leave any other comments; good, bad, guesses to come; whatever! I love hearing from you all!
> 
> Stay home and Stay Safe!  
x
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> DEUTSCHE REICHIPOST: Image Artwork is of a Telegraph sent to a coded Hydra Operative, VISCOUT, regarding the base Steve just invaded and blew up. It's based on the layout of Nazi Telegram from WW2, with a small alteration to the stamp where it bears the Hydra emblem instead of the Nazi Bird column, which is usually printed the top right corner on it's side. Done on Photoshop. 
> 
> NOTE: Throughout the story there will now be additions of either Telegrams and V-Mail (whether the V-Mail will be posted as a photo like above will be determined on how Ao3 lets me format it, as I had some trouble doing it by Text as I originally planned with the telegram. But it gave me the excuse to throw open Photoshop again so who's complaining. Not me! We'll see how it goes!
> 
> THE NORTH STAR: the polestar or North Star, a star of the second magnitude situated close to the north pole of the heavens, in the constellation Ursa Minor: the outermost star in the handle of the Little Dipper.  
CANIS MAJOR: Canis Major is a constellation in the southern sky. Its name means “the greater dog” in Latin. Canis Major represents the bigger dog following Orion, the hunter in Greek mythology.  
URSA MAJOR: Ursa Major, (Latin: “Greater Bear”)also called the Great Bear, in astronomy, a constellation of the northern sky, at about 10 hours 40 minutes right ascension and 56° north declination.  
ORION: The "hunter" constellation  
PERSEUS: Perseus is a constellation in the northern sky, being named after the Greek mythological hero Perseus.
> 
> NOTE: All of the Stars and constellations mentioned are those that can be seen during the Winter months. Other constellations can be seen depending on the time of year, so they will be different in the summer months. The North Star is constant, all year.


	15. PART 10 (d.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wakes up to a familiar sound. A familiar sound he hasn’t heard for a long time, and for a moment he forgets he’s in a truck and not the trenches.
> 
> Bang! Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!
> 
> He ducks low, moving before he thinks, hands coming up over his head. He stays like that for several seconds, ducked as low as he can, cringing as bullets fly over his head. He hears men choking and crying out before the return fire starts up and people duck to cover, swearing, but before he can look bullets rock against the side of the truck.  
They pierce the metal and the man lying over his shins catches two to the gut.

BUCKY

They travel fast, like Morita said, and the man was also right in that Bucky wouldn’t have been able to keep up. The trucks are keeping pace with the men but it’s not a crawl anymore and most of the able-bodied men are jogging, if not running. Anyone who walks risks falling further and further behind. He’s looked over the cabin of the truck twice to see Steve both at the head and the back of the formation, forcing himself to run slower than he’s able and encouraging the men; from Private to Major, to keep going - and taking as many heavy packs from them as he can. Occasionally Steve, and a few of the others manage to find some room on a truck or on the side of the tank to dump them when the men start flagging, and Jones has been by twice to double check if there’s any room on Bucky’s truck to dump some, even though he knows there isn’t.

He’s as see-through as Steve is.

Bucky is somewhat satisfied to see Dugan keeping his distance, even if Bucky’s pretty certain Jones - the only other survivor from their smaller squad - is reporting back to him. 

There is absolutely no room on his truck - another ‘medic truck’ two vehicles ahead of his blew two tires out on one side from a German trap around two hours in; and everyone in the vicinity raised his weapon at the loud pops - thinking it an ambush. Bucky, whose one hand has been clasped around his middle for hours over every single painful bump, whilst his other scratches relentlessly at his neck, doesn’t quite realize what’s happened until their truck jerks to a sharp stop. Nearly all the men in his truck had groaned and jerked forward with the movement, sliding across the bed of the truck. Bucky cracked the back of his head against the cabin when it snapped back. The men loaded as many of the wounded onto the remaining trucks, and as much food as they could in ten minutes, and left the blown-out truck where it stood.

He has another man crammed into the space between him and the man with the bullet in the side, so he’s pressed up against the edge, and a second half-draped over his shins. In a lot of ways he feels trapped - strapped down again - helpless with the weight pressing down on him. His body aches deep and painful, and itches like there’s insects running across his skin. He closes his eyes in the end, trying to imagine he’s home in bed at sixteen on a Sunday, and Jenna and Lily are collapsed complaining about getting up early for church out of his father’s earshot. It seems to work somewhat, allowing his body to rock with the bumps instead of tensing up so much. He checks his belly a couple of times slyly when everyone else near him is unconscious to see the area around the absence of the fourth staple clogged up with dry blood. He’s just glad he’s stopped bleeding and has managed to contain the stain on his shirt. He presses unhelpfully on where is knows the first staple is buried until he has to stop - and uselessly searches the wounded solider next to him for a knife. He’s unsuccessful, and the man with the bullet in his side is staring at him warily when he catches his eye under the other’s armpit.

He turns back to sitting straight and stares at the backwards moving landscape, men jogging ahead and to the side of him. He wonders how far away they are from the Austrian-Italian border and rocks his head back against the truck, closing his eyes and pushing past the lemonened candies in his pocket until he finds red and green.

He drifts off to the thrum of the vibrating engine, and Steve encouraging men older and younger than him to keep going in the background.

. . .

  
He wakes up to a familiar sound. A familiar sound he hasn’t heard for a long time, and for a moment he forgets he’s in a truck and not the trenches.

_Bang! Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!_

He ducks low, moving before he thinks, hands coming up over his head.

He stays like that for several seconds, ducked as low as he can, cringing as bullets fly over his head. He hears men choking and crying out before the return fire starts up and people duck to cover, swearing, but before he can look bullets rock against the side of the truck.

They pierce the metal and the man lying over his shins catches two to the gut.

“Shit! Shit!” Bucky yells, ducking and trying to get out from under the guy. 

Bullets raze over his head again, kicking up dirt and splintering trees and metal. He’s not the only one swearing. Several other men who have been jolted awake are scrabbling uselessly to get out of the trucks too, and soldiers taking cover on the other side are taking turns firing back and pulling those men over the side.

He can’t see anyone he knows.

Not anyone who isn’t the man with the bullet wound to his side and Bucky grabs him, also wild eyed, and tries to heave them both after he kicks the dead man off his feet. He’s unarmed.

He’s unarmed and men are trying to kill them. He’s a sitting duck and he’s _unarmed_ \- he knew this would happen. They should have given him a gun. 

Right as he’s managed to get traction and caught the eye of a man heaving the wounded men over the other side of the truck - the world turns - the truck with it. It flips with a loud crush of screeching metal and Bucky feels himself get flung over the side - loosing himself and the world into a wash of white then black.

He comes to on his left side after who knows how long, heart pounding and face scraped up. There’s heavy returning fire echoing over the ringing in his ears from both directions and he rolls until he’s back into cover of the overturned truck, coughing. The joint of his shoulder twinges painfully and there’s blood in his eye.

The already wounded men are face down on the ground; groaning, dead, or crushed under the truck with some of the men who had tried to help. He slaps at his ears to get rid of the ringing and left-over buzz; then clasps his dog-tags for half a second.

_ 32557038\. Barnes, Sergeant._

He thinks of his mother’s lucky talisman on a frayed string and on a gold chain. 

It’s enough.

He coughs and scrabbles again to his feet, keeping low, and runs to the man he made eye contact with - heaves his good shoulder against the broken truck bed with strength he knows he shouldn’t have. His stomach screams but he ignores it and pulls the man out from under it with numb hands. The soldier coughs, gasping, as Bucky pats him down looking for shrapnel before he yanks Bucky down. Bullets and engine oil burst through the metal above them. The man, skinny and blond, is young with hollowed cheeks; the way Steve’s used to be at the crux of his yearly sicknesses. Bucky yells at him without being able to hear what he’s saying.

The soldier’s face firms and he pulls a pistol from his belt and a Thompson from the dead man beside him. He hands the Thompson to Bucky; he has a gun. They move together to different cover before the leaking oil of the truck catches. 

Bucky shoots four men, trying to preserve his ammo, and the man shoots two, one in the leg and one in the shoulder before Bucky see’s someone he knows. Dernier and Morita, the dream team as they've dubbed themselves, are behind the main tank. Morita shoots cover while Dernier seems to spark something - a homemade grenade - and runs sharply right to throw it into the trees. Morita shoots a man in the chest who comes out from behind one to shoot the Frenchman. Dernier twists back behind the tank as the trunk swivels ninety degree’s but doesn’t fire, and starts again - tying and sparking.

For a second Bucky forgets what he’s just seen him throw, then he remembers the staircase with Lohmer and what Dernier managed to make with two wires, a recycled switch, an empty shell and a couple of ounces of engine oil. He pulls the blond down as it goes off. Three trees splinter and quite a lot of Krauts die. There’s a hole the size of a two market stalls in the treeline and Bucky can see them scuttling like cockroaches as they realize their main cover is gone.

Dernier’s sparking another one while the tank itself is occupied, and they seem to know it too. 

Bucky hits the ground low on his knees, raises the gun and picks them off, shoots cleanly through two unlucky sods. He rolls as soon as he’s done to avoid return fire and fires again as soon as he’s up and moving, adrenaline pumping. The blond solider is right behind him, and shoots a Kraut coming up unseen on Bucky’s right.

He sucks in a breath, clutching his pulsing stomach as he feels the staples shifting as soon as he gets back to cover - forces his awareness out again.

“You good?” The solider yells, glancing at Bucky hunched over, firing around the wheel of the food truck they’re behind. Bucky huffs out a breathy nod but lets himself sink lower; makes himself forget about his stomach and aching muscles like he forgot about his feet - lets more than adrenaline take him.

“He’ll throw another one in a minute.” Bucky yells back, motioning to Dernier who they can see more clearly now at this angle. “When he does it’s gonna’ be an open field, you understand?” The man nods sharply. “Take as many down as you can, doesn’t matter if you kill them, if the Krauts see enough of theirs go down when they’re supposed to be covered they might pull back and retreat.”

He still doesn’t know how many there are - it’s impossible to tell with them hiding behind the trees and hidden low in armed dig outs.

“What if they don’t?” The man questions.

He laughs harshly, “Then it’s still an open field, and you get to shoot them instead of them shooting you.” Bucky orders; “Get ready!”

“Yes sir!”

Dernier throws another; it’s not as powerful as the last and it’s a closer call for him, but it’s still effective. Bucky in particular aims for the one whose bullet just seared a line down Dernier’s arm and keeps going; an open field. He ducks down again and grabs a new magazine from the blonde’s belt as he’s still shooting, and reloads. Then they switch, Bucky shooting while he reloads his pistol again. Later he leans across and snags another Thompson from a spilled out crate nearby and passes his current companion a more effective weapon. The soldier’s gun runs out; he takes it without looking. A German grenade pings of the tank, then explodes and showers it with soil.

Dernier and Morita hit the ground coughing from the force; the distraction giving the German’s a chance to regroup.

_Come on._

The main trunk of the tank swivels thirty degrees suddenly. The ringing in Bucky’s ears fades to the background; catching on something else; he can hear the men inside switching from curses to yelps of success. He hears something click, spark; the tank powers up with a familiar - unwanted - _swwwiiiissshhh_ sound and blue light bursts out of the muzzle.

“Yes!” The solider behind him cheers as they get it working; Bucky, flinches and ducks lower - feeling inexplicably flushed at the sound. He can hear the Krauts yelling in panic as the tank starts firing at their soldiers and they start disintegrating. These men have clearly never seen this before - like the one’s at Azzano they’re regular Krauts - not Hydra. Bucky doesn’t know if that’s better or worse for their side. 

Dernier and Morita are back on their feet and Dernier has a shotgun now, seeing as he no longer has to cover the tank on his own. Bucky shoots some more - ignoring the Krauts shouting in the too far distance about losing all contact with their Eastern flank with no major gunfire in that direction - and glances to the left to see his old truck burning.

Then he sees Dugan fall; the blow back of a German grenade. The German’s start to break cover and run forward into the now stationary march. A pair aim for Dugan’s head as he turns back onto his knees - Bucky see’s his eyes widen from where he is - he can’t get his Winchester out from under him in time.

Blood and brains splatter into and down the insides of their helmets, followed by the one behind them who Bucky hits in the chest. Dugan’s head swivels in his direction and he does a double take - glancing from him to the burning truck and back again.

“Get up you goddamn asshole!” Bucky yells at him, shooting another two. The blond soldier’s still back to back with him. Dugan grins and lets out a long boasting laugh, stands, shoves his bowler hat back on - _because that’s the priority, of course it is_ \- and picks up his shotgun. 

“For Gods sake,” Bucky curses and goes to force himself to move forward, then hears Jones yelling at his supposed - laughing - superior officer before he can get a chance.

“Dugan! Get to cover, seriously!”

“Dugan!” They both yell together after and the guy finally moves, falling back to Jones.

“Jesus Christ!” Bucky keeps yelling, mainly at him.

Dugan laughs - yards away. “Jesus Christ? I could say the same to you, what a shot Bucky!”

“I swear to God!” Bucky and Jones yell at him again, in sync. They both jolt to look at each other before ducking and Jones joins Dugan laughing. 

“Didn’t think we’d ever get into another firefight like this altogether again, did you Sarge?”

“Is this really the time?!”

Dugan keeps on laughing as the Krauts start to flee.

“Where’s Steve?” Bucky yells at him instead, because he hasn’t seen any sign of his friend since this started.

“Heading to take them out at the wing last I heard. To make their command falter and get a proper look at numbers!” Dugan breaks off to yell.

Bucky freezes and the blond solider kicks at his knee to drop him onto his backside as a Kraut armed with a Browning falls with his finger still on the trigger. He grunts sharply but doesn’t feel his stomach twinge this time. He does remember what he heard the German officers say over the radio in the distance. “What wing?!”

_Not the East. Not the East. Not alone._

“The East!” Jones yells.

_Goddammit Steve._

_. . ._

STEVE

Steve’s running again.

This time he’s not running through a burning building or outside one, but through trees. It’s no less a war-zone. He’d seen five men fall near him during the initial assault ten minutes ago, and two more since he managed to get the others to cover - and that’s enough.

He’d listened to Bucky and taken a pistol from a moving truck an hour ago, and thank god he had - _thank God_ he listened even if it had taken him nearly four hours to do so. Without it and the cover fire he was able to provide more of the men under his charge could have fallen - and he’d be dead.

He’d shot a man moments before the German solider pulled the trigger aimed dead centre at the white star on blue at the centre of his chest. Without his jacket both his burnt-out shield and outfit is a clear as day bullseye, which isn’t helpful because while it draws attention to him it doesn’t draw attention _away_ from the other men laying defensive fire.

The heaviest assault seems to be aimed at the centre and back of the march from the right side - targeting the main supply trucks and the stragglers; the weakest; and Steve’s furious at the strategy even if he understands it.

He’d tried to get closer to where the men needed it the most, but as a blue and red eyesore and with the German semi-machine guns punching holes through cover and the air in between he realized it was impossible. Their men had rallied in seconds and reacted the way they’d been trained, but the Germans are undercover behind thick trees and digouts; and they’re prepared. The men can’t shoot what they can’t see - and every missed shot is less ammunition for their already dwindling supply.

Steve and Falsworth know this because they counted, even if the majority of the men don’t and are reacting the only way they know how - firing blindly at the enemy in a panic. 

At his fourth attempt to breach into the centre of the march, a whole corner chunk of his stage shield explodes outwards; forcing him back, and he realizes the German’s strategy in it’s entirety. It’s an insurgent separation with a flare of attrition warfare - like in his books - aiming full force at the centre and flank whilst forceably separating and blocking reinforcements from the front until the advantage is taken.

He, nor any of the others can get past the twenty metre separation the German’s are peppering with continuous gunfire and grenades . They can’t reinforce their centre and from the lack of blue energy or the sound of it powering up the men haven’t been able to get the Hydra tank up and running - so they don’t have that advantage either.

_It’ll be a massacre_, Steve knows, if he can’t bring down those MG42’s and if the enemy doesn’t falter. That’s what makes his decision, and that’s how he finds himself curving round the other side - brown tarp tied at his neck to cover the red and blue - to break past their defences where they can’t see him a quarter mile ahead before running back.

Some of the others saw him and know, and Falsworth has his orders - it was half his idea after all - targeting the main command and communication. Steve’s to bring down the MG42’s in the dig outs before moving onto the protected command and communication areas, and quite simply; cause havoc. No one had contradicted his plan, not once, not after the watchtower.

He’s running, tree’s flying in and out of his vision as he breaks world records once more and shoves the first Germans he sees into the sides of tree trunks. He doesn’t break pace - knows they're down for the count from the cracks he hears loud and deafening, and takes out eight more before someone finally realizes he’s there. The man see’s him but can only get half a yell out before Steve’s on him, and he doesn’t make it to the radio's - none of them do. He counts only nine shots that go off - none from him yet - but they all miss or he dodges and the men still fall. 

He keeps going silently, tarp tied around his neck like a cape. He feels ridiculous - but it’s working - he blends in and even when he doesn’t he’s too fast and the men around him go down without the rest of their squad noticing until it’s their turn. He skids to a stop behind an oak as he hears Falsworth’s shouted orders sixty meters away; he’s back where he started just twenty meters behind the German front-line. He ducks down and curves around the tree, letting his hearing narrow down to which dig-outs have the MG42s. 

There are several men hidden low behind trees closer to the opening of the clearing - but he can see camouflaged dig-outs hidden under tarps from the flashing muzzles poking out. Of the two closest to him; the second is armed with FG’s over the MG42s, which are the real targets and the ones keeping the reinforcements apart; and also the gun that nearly shot his arm off when he attempted it. The rest of the men are firing potshots at his, taking them out whereever they can but not moving forward. Compared the racket he can hear just over half a mile away at the centre and back of the march, there’s not much gunfire going on over here in comparison. 

Steve peers around the tree again at the men he’ll have to cross to get to the dig-outs and picks up two heavy stones from nearby instead of his gun. If he shoots it could give away his position before he’s ready.

He throws both at the two soldiers the furthest away as he breaks from the oak tree and punches three more bare-handed. One rockets back into the first dig-out from the force, collapsing the twiggy tarp onto those beneath. He kicks another as the German tries to come out from under it and drops a live grenade in. He drops another as he jumps the second dig-out, lands and keeps running - punching and shoving men with his shield before they can raise their guns. He thinks he hears men start to panic as the grenades land in the dirt before they blow to high heaven but he can’t be sure.

That gets the German’s attention, for sure, as all heads turn to the explosions. The fight is suddenly more furious and he’s having to impossibly dodge bullets coming at him from all directions, and his hearts pounding like it did when he jumped up three flights of stairs in that watchtower with one leap or when he jumped above that inferno - it’s exhilarating in a way he’s never felt before and he knows Peggy was right - he’s worth more than just playing at being a dancing monkey. 

He draws his pistol and two more grenades from the belts of Germans when the shots become too frantic to dodge and the men too far away - and he throws the grenades in both directions; flings himself into another German dig-out. He takes out the men there before he ducks low to avoid the searing heat of the grenades he just set off above. He smashes the MG42 and the two FG’s there before letting himself listen above the pounding of his heart.

Falsworth’s moving with squads from the front, heading South to reinforce their own in an attempt to pincer the German flanks. 

_Come on Steve, keep going - part two._

He sucks in a sharp breath, picks up another gun and a couple of knives from the incapacitated Germans under him and peaks out over the top. He ducks sharply as six different kinds of bullets pepper the edge of the dig-out - kicking up dirt into his hair and eyes. Well, that’s great. They know he’s here now. He slides his flimsy stage shield to his front and pulls the clips on four grenades. He tosses them in the general direction of the shots.

Men yell - _boom_ \- and he’s off - shield only catching a sprinkle now. Steve hisses through his teeth as one cuts through the metal and narrowly misses catching him in the side, and starts firing back over the top of the striped starry shield. His aim’s okay - he’s a decent shot though not overly experienced as most boys are when they’re first shipped out he supposes - and he misses a couple of times but the rest make contact. He zigzags both ways and reverses it, ducking and jumping unexpectedly to avoid direct shots, even though he’s moving too fast for the others to come close to him.

He smashes both radios he sees as he passes, and shoots another twice as a solider reaches for it to keep the German superiors blind to what’s happening on this wing. There’s only a few left in this area - the rest he can see moving out of the treeline and into the centre of the ambush. There’s a lot of smoke. 

He grabs the last one by the collar and disarms him in one swoop; slams him into a tree. The man groans from the back of his throat and tries to hunch over. Steve keeps him upright and off the ground, and glances over his shoulder as his mind flicks back through his German phrasebook and Mrs Bakker shouting at her husband through the walls.

“Where is your command based?” Steve barks in lousy German, “What’s their position?” 

“Hail Hit--” The solider tries to stutter.

“What is their position?” Steve yanks the helmet off the mans head as he snaps out the question again. The man, if you could call someone so young a man - _he can’t be more than eighteen surely,_ Steve thinks, looks at him with terrified eyes and short sworn hair. His eyes dart to the right, and his hand shakes in the direction of south-east.

“Zurück…” He stutters again, and switches to mumbling in slow accented English instead, “Back…Don’t kill me…Please, please don’t---”

Steve knocks his head against the back of the tree trunk and the boy sinks unconscious to the ground. 

“Stay down, kid.” Steve mutters, and takes off in that direction. It’s as Falsworth thought - the Lieutenants and the Captains are commanding from the back of the ambush. 

_If I bring them down surely the assault will crumble._

A mile south-west he hears a familiar tank powering up - Steve grins. _There we go boys, that’ll do it. If anything will send the German’s running it’s that thing._ He hears them before he see’s them - barking and shouting about a loss of contact with the North-Eastern flank._ That’s on me_ \- Steve thinks and slams himself into the side of a carefully concealed ammunition truck so it rocks violently into another four feet away. There’s flashes of blue in the distance to join in with the grenade explosions. He rocks back as soon as he’s hit it; shoves his hands under the frame and heaves until it flips and takes half the command area out. There’s suddenly a lot of shooting, at him instead of around him and he has to duck and dodge again, his gun in one hand half-forgotten as he uses the shield as a weapon - shoving and slamming it into gun barrels and men alike.

Someone grabs the back of his brown cape and yanks, and more from the shock of the knot tightening around his Adams Apple than the pain, he almost falls backwards. He forces himself to twist as he falls, trying to make it deliberate with a move he’s never seen nor done before and manages to get a hold of the cape himself. Steve rips it from his neck and bodily tosses the German Lieutenant on the other end over three rows of men trying to line up.

_Note to self: no cape. _

He rolls and kicks several off their feet until he’s back behind a large rock, jumping down and firing behind him. Shards of stone scatter over his hair as they keep shooting and he thinks,_ here we go._

_They’ll throw a grenade. This is how you die; and this time there’s no priest to stand over you and give you last rites like when you were two, four, five, and fifteen._ Bucky had refused outright, stubborn and selfish to call for Father Matthews when he was twenty in the Winter of ‘39.

Steve had wanted to slug him for it for weeks once he was better for denying him that Sacrament, despite his friend’s faith in his survival.

_Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit._

_May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up._

_Oh Lord, oh holy Father, I’ve sinned these past few days - these past few weeks - I confess it. I’ve taken human life and disobeyed those above me, I’ve stolen and I’ve lied. I’ve slept with another outside the sanctity of marriage. Dominae lesus, forgive me my sins, save me from the fires of Hell. I am deeply sorry, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most need of Thy mercy._

_Dominae lesus ----_

Bright blue - _flash_ _ -_ hissing and cleaving through the trees. The centre of two trees to the right of him disintegrate the same way a man would - leaving the stumps and heavy branches above. They drop with heavy gravity onto those below.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name._

Steve ducks to his stomach as an entire ten foot branch snaps off on the way down, cracks down the middle as it hits the rock behind him. Then he darts to the right to avoid it crunching his skull in two, and catches his leg on left-over shrapnel from another explosion. There’s a sharp snag of pain, like there was on his arm in the factory, enough to make him wince, but he’s not going to ignore this miracle - and the advantage it gives him. He’s up from the rock - whatever is left of the command is minuscule at best. There’s more blue flashes further back - targeting specifically now - the other one must have been a missed shot that just kept going the distance until it hit something. The gunfire on their side is louder too as the German continue to move in, but it’s less controlled without continuing orders at their back. Steve spies two smoking gaps in the tree line a quarter mile south and somehow knows that wasn’t the tanks work. It’s the size of two market stalls, and there are men on the ground and scuttling back into the trees for new cover.

Someone - one of theirs - is picking off the runners with _stunning_ shots. 

They’re not always shots to kill but they’re deliberate - and every time one goes down with a shot to the shin, kneecap or small of the back Steve knows they aren’t misses or less than perfect. Whoever it is is aiming to incapacitate, so the German’s go down in full view of their men; one after another. Steve huffs an inconceivable breath at the obvious strategy; at this ace shot with a rifle attempting to draw more out from cover to help the wounded. 

It’s not Falsworth or the other officers’ strategy - it can’t be - there’s no way they’ve made it this far down the formation for it to have anything to do with them - but it’s working. In the few seconds he allows himself to watch and think as he starts moving - a squad of soldiers behind a thick elm jerk as another goes down feet away, followed by one more attempting to help whose bullet to the side deliberately has him fall closer to where the gunman must know they’re hiding.

_There’s no way this is anyone but a trained sniper_, Steve thinks, _there’s no way - he’s got to be. _

Steve throws his shield at three men and dodges some more bullets from the left, spins to pick it up from the ground and shoots with his pistol until he’s out of bullets at any remaining in the command area. The German assault is faltering - there’s no more orders coming from command and Steve see’s the lower SS officers pull themselves up and try to take charge in the meantime. 

He moves on, speeding closer to the treeline and the clearing their men were attacked in, aiming to literally take them from behind - one by one. They start going down, and Steve can see the men suddenly start panicking as their smaller group takes shots in both directions. Four men run at him at once from all sides once he dodges one too many bullets with only a sear to the arm and he fights them off the same way he saw Bucky try to fight off all the Midgley brothers - both large and small. He blocks like he saw George Barnes do when sparring with his best friend during training, protecting his head and chest. After ducking another swing and slugging a solider in the jaw, he realizes,_ damn - he’s out of practice, but his footwork has improved drastically._

A sixth that he doesn’t see slashes at his arm with a wicked knife - tearing the fabric but missing his skin (barely) in obviously trained movements. Steve tries to back up but there’s more behind him - and he hadn’t even seen the knife until it almost cut him. A seventh is also armed, and goes for his side as he dodges the sixth’s second and third slash.

A bullet sears through the seventh’s forearm and he screams out a curse as he drops the knife - takes another to the other shoulder after barely a beat. It sends him to the ground, hard.

Shocked, Steve focuses back on the sixth but that one goes down too with a shot to the switch at the back of the head. Steve tracks the trajectory this time; the bullet speared through a half foot spacing in the forest from somewhere below on the ground. Steve spies the muzzle of a gun and a scratched up hand holding the barrel steady from underneath a truck with sunken blown out tyres, but is otherwise invisible. No wonder the German’s can’t work out where the shots are coming from. 

Steve hits the last of them before the man has to waste another bullet on saving his life, while still unsure on how the solider even saw his predicament from this far away. _It must have been the eyesore that is your costume, you mook_ \- he excuses,_ you lost your cape, you’re a walking bullseye._

Thank god the sniper recognized the costume from this distance - there’s no way he has a scope on that gun to make out Steve in detail. He darts back to cover and pulls the shield off the ground and onto his back again, picks up his stolen gun and palms a knife he’s never used before. Behind him, the tank turns twenty-five degrees - it has a new target and Steve’s probably in the way.

He starts running again; from the German’s coming at him and the energy he can hear powering up behind him. He leaps sideways and the soldiers coming towards him catch the unlucky energy blast. He keeps moving, shooting from behind the German’s lines to confuse them, further South, then back North so they can’t target where the shots are coming from. Men are fleeing through the forest as their Sergeants and other SS officers pull them back, running frightened as the blue energy shells pick up the pace. 

_They haven’t seen this stuff before either_, Steve realizes, _it’s as new to them as it is for the Allies. That’s interesting - Hydra aren’t sharing their technology._ He remembers Jones telling him that the 107th thought the tank was one of theirs because it shot apart the German charge first before it turned on them. What were these people playing at?

Turning back North again he almost runs straight into Falsworth’s squad of available men - successful in taking out men from the flanks in a pincer move. He slams a German solider, as he’s learnt to do, into falling seven feet away as he reaches the squad.

Falsworth sees him - and yells. “It’s working Captain!”

“Seems like! We’re not done yet though!” Steve calls back, jogging to a halt in front of them. “Keep going - all the digouts are gone and the men are falling back in groups with what’s left of the officers. Just keep driving them out. And be careful about a quarter mile down - near the tank - for that and the sniper.”

“Sniper?!” One of them snaps out, “Where?”

“About a quarter mile South.” Steve repeats, “one of ours, covered under a truck. He’s been taking out the men strategically - the officers especially. He’s making long range shots though, without a scope, and with no radios on our side he or the tank might not know we’ve breached the treeline as well.”

Falsworth nods, “They’ll see men moving in fatigues and think we’re the Jerrys’ too, they could shoot us without even realizing it.”

“What, our own men are gonna shoot us now too?” One of the stronger of the prisoners bites out, brow creased and voice sharp.

Steve ignores the comment, “I’m going to try and get word to them and sort communication out now you squads are through but keep flushing them back, just be careful. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get word to them.”

“Ha!” Falsworth laughs, then scoffs as he begins to move forward again. “How long it takes? You’ve just taken out all of the dig outs and the Jerry’s eastern command in under five minutes, somehow, getting word to our own side doesn’t seem like it’s going to be much a problem.”

He moves off with the others, and Steve takes his new assignment in hand - and pelts at full speed to the centre assault of their formation.

“Captain!”

Several men shout at once, Sergeant Dugan among them, as he kicks and stabs at German soldiers still stubbornly moving forward from behind. Multiple men immediately move to cover his approach, moving forward or switching their aim so he can make it near Timothy Dugan and Private Gabe Jones.

“Who’s in the tank?” He yells above the continuing stuttuctto of gunfire.

“No idea!” Jones shouts back, “we were too far away; nearer the front when the bastards hit us. We only got back to this area not too long ago.”

“They took their bloody time getting it running though!” Dugan shouts over his shotgun barrel, without taking his eyes off the treeline. “’thought they’d never get that thing working with how they were going on about it - it’s only in German for Gods sake!”

Jones barks out a laugh, “You swore up a storm and had no idea when you first got in Dugan; I was the one who could read it!”

“Well every squad needs a Jones then, don’t they?” Dugan shoots back automatically and Steve see’s Jones do a double-take at him.

Originally, Jones wasn’t a part of the 107th, because of course the US Army wouldn’t dare mix up white and coloureds in one unit - they aren’t even supposed to be in combat. US laws state instead that they are to be assigned to combat-support roles such as cooks, quartermasters or to the unlucky job of grave digging and registry - and those are always Segregated units themselves too. The 92nd Infantry Division is the only All Black Division to see combat - which was Jones's unit, but in a close battle before Azzano, Steve's heard, Jones threw himself into the thrall, and saved Dugan and three other men that day. Their units were positioned alongside each other until Azzano, larger and three times worse than that first skirmish, took them all prisoner. In their months of capture, only one of four black men of the march, they've grown close, and has more than gained Dugan's loyalty. Steve’s inexplicably pleased at Jones expression and the comment, because at first glance hadn’t considered the heavier-set man to have the unpopular liberal opinions he did after the Japanese comment made by the cells.

He switches back to the priority before they get distracted. “The tanks up and working now; but we need to get word to them and the others - we have men in the trees now - be careful who you shoot!”

Dugan swears and mutters “friendly fire” to himself. 

“There hasn’t been any kills yet,” Steve continues, vividly remembering his close escape with the blue energy beam, “but that doesn’t mean there won’t be - especially with whoever is in that tank - they’re just shooting at anything!”

“Right. We’ll try and get word to them - Jones, pass on to the rest of them. If they say shit about it, tell ‘em ‘Captain’s orders.’”

Jones blinks at him, then gives him a small smile with a determined set to his brow. “You got it.”

“Morita - the Jap-” _He’s not a Jap_, Steve thinks, “might have a better chance at getting word to the tank - he and Dernier were blowing holes in the trees with homemade grenades until the idiots started pulling their weight - ‘ey seemed to have some sorta’ understanding. I’ll try to--”

“Don’t!” Steve cuts him off. “Let me, you stay here and keep passing the message round.” 

He turns to do exactly that and freezes at the burning husk of an overturned truck. This is the first time he’s let himself notice the devastation around him; the burnt out pits, the small fires, the shells and the shrapnel littering the ground; the bodies. There’s over thirty at least; a good cluster of them the wounded men - crushed and dead under the overturned truck or shot to hell in the other. The overturned truck he knows well.

_No. No, no, no. I don’t see him, I don’t see his body--_

He’s halfway to hissing in a breath---

“Barnes is good!” Dugan calls from behind him and Steve spins to see the man with his eyes away from the treeline and looking serious for once.

“What?!”

“Barnes! He’s good - fuck me if I know how - he must have got out of the truck before it flipped - he’s with another Private just along the way. Gotten hold of a Thompson and a rifle last time I saw him; covered me when I thought for sure I was a goner.” Dugan suddenly grins, “Trust me, Cap, I was more surprised than you are.”

“Where?” Steve snaps out quickly once he’s caught his breath.

“Over that way,” Dugan nods south, “where the tank was before it started moving; he’s sticking close to the trucks and the ground to reload. He and that other Private are covering each other and taking out the runners.”

Steve blanches a little, “Taking out the runners?”

Dugan laughs again, “Who do you thinks been picking two off with one bullet at a time down there?”

“That’s Bucky?!”

“What? You didn’t know he was a sniper?”

Steve half-laughs in bewilderment. “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Crack shot he is.” Dugan says like he’s talking about the weather. The man turns to start firing again, then he starts yelling at the rest of the men to watch out for their own in the trees - and that he’ll box anyone who he catches shooting at theirs. Steve takes that as his queue to leave.

He runs and ducks between each bit of cover he sees, ordering the men the same as Dugan, and looks actively for Morita behind the tank. He spots him, and further down sees a blonde headed solider firing around the deflated wheel of a truck with someone’s legs sticking out from under the truck behind him. Three more men go down in the forest, all the men now actively falling back. Steve shakes his head in bewilderment again.

He opens his mouth to yell, about to jump between cover again - he’s almost at the tank. He jolts back from a spray of hot bullets. The men nearest to him see it and start firing furiously in his defence. Steve’s still a little astounded by that attitude.

“Morita!” He yells from his position instead. The man snaps to attention. “We have several squads in the trees - tell them to watch their fire!” The last part he yells harshly as the tank fires from it’s regular machine gun with no restraint - wasting ammunition and making one of Steve’s squads drop to the floor ducking four-hundred feet away. “Watch their fire!”

“Yes Captain!” Morita yells back, understanding immediately even if he can’t see what Steve’s just seen. Both he and Dernier start banging on the tank and Morita screams at those inside through the small holes. There’s some kind of argument - a racial slur that bristles Steve as much as it does Morita and the man screams back at them even worse. “Captain’s orders!” He shouts at last - and that seems to do the trick somehow.

There’s suddenly a furious burst of machine gunfire - not from their side - the blond solider jerks back yelping and ducking with hot slices on his palm and cheek. He yanks on the man’s - Bucky’s - legs from his other side - forcibly pulling him out from under the truck as the bombardment of bullets continues in a wave from left to right. They’ve worked out where the shots are coming from.

“_Hey_!” Steve yells angrily and starts forward - not caring about loosing his cover. As he does the blonde haired man pulls the other solider out and rolls backwards just as the truck’s engine fuel catches fire.

Dernier shouts, “Sacre bleur!” The Frenchman starts shooting at the area it’s coming from while banging on the tank to get it to alter it’s priority. 

Steve missed a dig-out. _How did he miss a dig-out?_ He had them all, he was so sure he had them all. His head switches back to the two men still rolling backwards - fiery sparks spitting at them - before they slow to a stop. He can see - it’s definitely his friend - he’s grunting again.

“Is he hit?!” He yells at the solider.

“Are either of you hit?!” Morita yells straight after. 

The man clumsily searches his friend, fingers bloody, as Bucky turns on his back before turning to Morita and shaking his head. Steve forces his eyes away and squints at the treeline as he dodges, still running - trying to draw their fire away from the other men and what’s left of their supplies. 

“Captain, what are you doing?!” 

Steve squints at the treeline again until he see’s the hidden muzzle flashing, he ducks behind the tank as the bullets follow him. 

“Give it to me!” Steve snaps once he’s next to familiar men and Dernier hands over the Hydra powered shotgun he took from the Hydra base. “How do you--?”

Dernier flicks several things on it on and off, motions him to lever it against his shoulder when he fires and points to what must be the trigger on the contraption. “Pull.” He says in accented English.

Steve levers it against his shoulder, and crouches just over the lowest point of the tank. He searches, then fires at the target only he can perfectly locate. He pulls the trigger and blue light bursts out of it - half the size of the main barrel of a tank - hits the dig-out squarely in a way Steve’s proud of himself for.

There’s some sort of explosive in that dig-out with them - Steve can hear it in the minuscule of a second as the energy sets them off. They ignite with a blue-orange blast. The stuttering gunfire cuts off in all directions for a moment. The tank then continues on, more wary now at least. Steve lets himself breath deeply for the first time in twenty minutes - though it feels like an hour - letting his body slowly lower it’s defences. He lowers the gun, passes it to Dernier - glances at the men around him and then turns in the direction of his friend. 

Bucky’s sat up, thank god, if hunched over, holding his sleeve up against the line scored across the Private’s cheek while the other circles around his stomach. He’s turned in Steve’s direction and the look on his face is half-disbelieving and half furious. _He probably saw you deliberately use yourself as a moving target._ There’s a Thompson he’s deliberately left within reach, and a abandoned rifle still lying under the burning truck.

He suddenly remembers the sixth and seventh men armed with knives. Bucky nods back to him, grimacing and turns back to plugging the blood on the soldiers face. He hears Bucky telling the man that it’ll probably scar - but not to worry - some girls like scars.

“Some girls?” The guy murmurs back, “What about nice girls?”

He knows Bucky’s scrunching up his face even if he can’t physically see it past the other soldier’s head. “Nice girls aren’t as fun.” He says instead, and the man tries to laugh through the pain.

“Your stomach okay?” The man asks him, “I saw you before, when you---”

“Captain!”

Steve snaps into focus as the men start crowding round, coming out from behind trucks and trees from the other side - and he loses the rest of Bucky’s response. 

Steve heaves in a breath - puts his Captain America face back on.

. . .

  
Falsworth and the three other squads return, missing one member they left with but are otherwise unscathed. He wishes he could say the same about the rest of the men, who have replaced nearly all of the already wounded men they lost when the medic truck took a grenade to the side.

Falsworth comes to a halt in front of him and some of the other men briefly salute him before going off to find familiar faces in the survivors. The soldiers from the Northern position and those from the South are all conveying at the centre, still on guard at the base of the main assault - it’s getting crowded and the most diligent men have already started to collect dog-tags.

There’s no gunfire.

“They retreated back over two miles - there was cargo trucks camouflaged there and took off to the hills. We didn’t see any higher officers - just main infantry.”

The Italian Resistance member, Mario, says “If we are where I think we are we’re at least two to three hours by truck from the main supply line - and the nearest checkpoint.”

“So if we move quickly we might actually have a chance of loosing them-”

“But they know our path now. Surely they’ll be surveying the area now they know we’re here - and weaker than we were before . We’ve lost half our trucks --”

They men start to argue amongst themselves, some looking to Steve - and he - he doesn’t know what to do. His adrenaline is still pumping with dull thuds at the back of his skull and he doesn’t know what to do.

“I know another route.”

The nearest men fall silent around him at Mario’s quiet comment, who turns to look nervously at Steve. “It’s further out, in a wider arch but it’s more covered. I didn’t suggest it before because it’s longer and a tougher terrain which would have slowed us down with the wounded---”

“Not many of the wounded still left.” Steve hears someone mutter at the back.

Mario continues, having not heard them, “-And I thought this route would be safe this far out. But…” The man swallows, “but obviously my information wasn’t up to date.”

He stares at Steve as he finishes, as the others are, like he’s expecting Steve to berate him or ask questions he can’t for the life of him think of right now. Steve stares back dumbly for a second.

“Would the Krauts--The Germans,” Bucky corrects, appearing at his side, “be able to track us through the other route if we turned onto it from here?”

Mario shakes his head, “No, its away of the main track, mostly wild and completely under cover, winding further up the main valley - if we turned onto it now we’d have to travel uphill for a time but once we’re past the ruined cottages we’d disappear completely until twenty miles over the border - and then it’ll only be another…10 miles until your Amer-i-can base - I know where it is.”

“There’s no way they’d know about it like they did with this one?”

Mario shakes his head vehemently. “No,” he says again, “only my sister and the old women know this route, and we only know it because we grew up on these lands at our grandfather’s mountain farm. They won’t know, we’ll disappear from sight by land and air if we take it.”

The men begin murmuring around them. Bucky sidles closer to him and says quietly, “We should take it.” Because of course he knows Steve’s at a loss for what to do. He knows his face too well not to. “We can’t afford another firefight.”

Steve looks around the convening men, the burnt out soil of the area from his taller viewpoint and silently, but subtly slides his arm around Bucky’s back and takes some of his weight. After tensing once, looking at the others, Bucky allows it - leaning into him. The blonde solider is still with him on his other side - holding a ripped shirt to his cheek with his already wrapped up hand.

“It’d be tough terrain, up a mountain; with the tank and the wounded--”

“They’ll have to deal with it and if - if we have to loose the tank then we have to loose it. We can’t afford another fire fight, Steve.” He repeats again firmly through the side of his mouth - hugging his Thompson close to him - fingers tight.

Steve grimaces, “I know, I just really don’t want to have the fight about leaving the tank.”

“We don’t know that we will.”

“Lets hope not, but you’re right, its the safest option we have. The German’s will be back.”

Bucky shuffles his feet - Steve stubbornly but firmly take more of his weight as he stands taller and calls out orders that every man is to follow Mario’s direction. That the trip will be longer, more strenuous, but safer. He tells them just as he told them miles back; that he’s getting them back to Allied safety and that hasn’t changed, they’d get there - so long as they kept pushing through the way he knew they could.

What follows after the immediate agreement and stubborn army pride is an uncomfortable time of counting their losses; food, weapons and people. There are sixty dead in total, twice as many wounded; they have the tank, about a third of their trucks and transport left and barely any ammunition or food. It’s a devastating state of affairs. There’s an awful argument about the bodies - Mario insists they need to move now if they want to reach the cottages before winter sundown, which means there’s no time to bury their dead. Steve refuses point blank at first - they were giving their men a burial because these were sixty-four men in Steve’s charge and he failed them. The least he can do is give them the respect and dignity they deserve and not leave them to rot. He’ll dig every single one of their graves himself if he has to.

There’s not enough time and they all hate it, everyone keeps telling him - _there’s not enough time - they need to leave now - they don’t have the stamina - you can’t do it all on your own Cap - there’s not enough time._ These men have had to leave their fallen comrades before, and its certainly not something they relish, but its been done and Steve doesn’t have that experience. He quietly buried and prayed for any bodies he did find that weren't completely obliterated by blue energy at the factory, which wasn’t many. He’d even prayed for himself and the other men who have killed that day - for God to not judge them all so harshly.

He carries on, and they keep telling him over and over again - _there’s no time_, and he bites out that they already could have buried maybe three or four of them in the time they’ve been arguing.

Bucky says, “Steve.”

He stops.

Bucky says, “There’s not enough time - we need to leave now. I know you hate it - but we can’t bury them.

Steve scrunches his face, “What if we take them with us--”

That idea starts a whole other commotion.

“We could load them on the trucks--” Steve continues, ignoring the disagreement around him.

“What trucks?” Bucky asks quietly again from Steve’s side, to him and not the other men. He pinches Steve’s arm to get his attention and repeats his question until Steve sees the logic in it. “There’s barely any trucks left - and those that are will be stocked to the brim by the next minute.”

“We’re already having to leave ammo’ behind,” Falsworth reminds him respectfully.

Steve fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut in frustration and guilt in front of the soldiers. “Load up and lets get moving - the food and the wounded are the priority.”

After several minutes when the men surrounding them have dispersed and Steve’s looking at the stagnant blood sinking into the dirt, Bucky leans into him further. He says, “I’m sorry Steve.”

“Yeah Buck, me too.” Steve replies, still watching the devastation as the men begin loading and lining up. Mario’s upfront. He should probably go help - no probably about it he absolutely should but he can’t seem to move to make the effort. He twists slightly to look down at his best friend’s head. Bucky’s not looking at him anymore, but the blonde solider with the bleeding cheek is, still hanging close to Bucky.

Steve smiles at him, forced but grateful. “Thank you.”

The man blinks bewilderingly at him; he looks young. “What?” He sprouts uncertainly, wincing.

“I saw you pull him,” here he cants his head down in Bucky’s direction, “back before the bullets and the blast caught at the end. You probably, no did, save his idiot life.” Bucky nudges him sharply in the ribs at that and Steve winces a little. “So thank you.”

“Oh.” The younger, smaller man says uncertainly, “I didn’t know you two were…”

“He’s my best friend.” Steve supplies, “since we were kids.”

The man seems strangely mollified at that for some reason and Steve forces back a frown of confusion at it. 

“Right, well I owed him.” He looks at Bucky who seems comfortable staying out of the conversation, and continues. “He pulled me out from under---helped me when the truck flipped.” Bucky glances up sharply at the correction and the man meets his eyes head on. Steve definitely frowns this time.

“From the medic truck?” He asks, eyes flicking behind him to the totalled smouldering truck. Someone’s broken legs are sticking out from under the metal in a puddle of congealing blood. “Were you wounded too?”

The man shakes his head, eyes still on Bucky. “No, I was trying to pull the others from it when the Germans hit it.“ He sticks out his hand and says with finality, “Private Thomas Avery.”

Bucky shifts his weight to free his hand between them and Steve watches his face for any flicker of pain as he shakes the Private’s hand. “Sergeant James Barnes.”

The man snorts, “I figured you were a Sergeant from how you were ordering me around.”

Steve knows Bucky’s face as well as Bucky knows his and can see the man is holding back from saying something that is probably snide and unhelpful. Instead he answers, “You welcome,” with just enough of a twinge that Steve can hear the petulance in it.

“In that case,” the man continues, eyes still on Bucky, “I’ll see you around Sergeant, thanks for the bandage. Captain.” He nods at Steve last and wanders off finally, though not without looking back over his shoulder. 

There’s definitely something fishy going on.

Steve turns himself and Bucky so that they’re actually facing each other; unfortunately meaning Bucky as to take his own weight back.

“Are you okay?” Bucky shoots out before he can open his mouth and shoves his hand under Steve’s armpit, then lifts his arm up and away from his side. Steve can’t remember the last time either of them have respected each other’s personal space, if they ever have.

“I’m fine.” Steve answers, and moves to put his arm back down.

“_I’m fine_.” Bucky mocks in an unfavourable imitation of Steve’s voice and swats at him disagreeably. “Looks like blood to me.”

“Only a little, I’m fine, honestly--”

“Humour me.”

“When have you ever humoured me?” Steve shoots back.

“Were not talking about me - Christ you have to make everything an argument, don’t you?”

Steve scoffs loudly at the irony then yelps as Bucky pinches him hard on the skin of his armpit in way he knows from ten years of boyhood wrestling will make Steve jolt his arm up. Inadvertently he does, serum or no serum and Bucky takes full advantage. Catching Steve’s elbow and pushing it back and away with one hand he starts prodding at the cut on his side in a familiar manner.

“That was a dirty trick, what are you, eleven?”

“Go cry to a teacher then.” Bucky shoots back, “This from a bullet?”

He pokes at the edges around the cut again. As the adrenaline fades away Steve’s pain levels have been steadily growing. 

“Would you stop?” He half snaps.

“Answer the question then.”

“Yes it was from a bullet. It just skimmed me.”

“I figured as much,” Bucky grumbles quietly, and reaches down to the side seam on his shirt. “They skim you anywhere else?”

Steve stops him from ripping his shirt up as a bandage and catches his hands. “Buck. I’m fine. It’ll heal up completely in a couple of hours.”

Bucky makes a face Steve can’t fully decipher. “That’s crazy.”

_Is it? Your feet healed, and despite how your acting I know you know it too._

“Remember my arm in the base?” Steve says instead.

“No…what about your arm?”

Remembering how high as a kite Bucky had been, Steve lets the laspe in memory go, figuring he’ll give that one to him. He pulls the ripped sleeve away from his forearm to show Bucky the unblemished skin. “Shrapnel from the explosion caught me here after we jumped. Look at it now, not even a scar really. It scabbed over after an hour and was gone by nightfall. It’ll be the same with that one. Cease your worrying, alright?”

Bucky stares at his arm and numbly thumbs at it. “What about infection?”

Steve nudges him, “That’s not something I have to worry about anymore, the serum saw to that too.”

“How do you know? How do you know for sure?”

There’s no way for Steve to answer that question in a way that will mollify Bucky, though he knows in himself that he’s right; infection is a non-issue now.

“I just do, Buck. The serum fixed everything.”

Just like that, Bucky’s glaring at him hotly. “There was nothin’ that needed to be fixed, Steve.”

Steve stares just as forcefully back, “Yes there was and you know it.” Bucky opens him mouth to retaliate but Steve doesn’t let him get a word in: “Asthma, arrhythmia, scoliosis, heart trouble, ‘nervous trouble’. The Winter colds and the Autumn colds and the summer colds. Those things can’t kill me ever again Bucky, that’s the point!”

“No. Now the war is gonna’ kill you instead--”

“I thought you were happy for me?”

“I am happy for you!”

“Yeah, it sure sounds like it--”

“They nearly shot you half a hundred times Steve - two guys had knives inches away from your throat - I saw them - and you don’t care! You ran out there without thinking - like you always do. All the goddamn time. This isn’t a back alley anymore! You could have died!”

“Now you know how I felt before and when I found you on that table!”

“I didn’t choose to be put on that table! You did!”

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then Bucky says, more calmly, “How is dying out here any better than dying at home?”

“Here I can make a difference, and besides, I ain’t dead and you ain’t either.” 

Bucky opens his mouth to retaliate then closes it again, looking away; resigned. “We should get going.” He says then, fidgeting as he turns away. Steve thinks that might be the first time Bucky’s ever given up on an argument before.

“Yeah, your probably right.” He says, and finally manages grasp the effort needed to join Mario at the head of the march.

. . .

_14th November, 1944. U.S Paularo Army Unit Base, Italy. 4.46pm_

  
“Do we have any visual?” Peggy Carter asks those who have just returned on a fly-over. She prays to god they do.

“No ma’m.”

She sighs, impatient. “Nothing? At all? That factory fire was large enough to be seen from a town two miles away from what’s been reported; there must be path or some kind of sign of a direction afterwards.”

“No ma’m. We saw nothing of the sort, no survivors. It looked like there was some left over smoke in a clearing in the trees fifteen miles or so from the line but from the uniforms we glimpsed they were a German battalion. No sign of escapees or….Captain America.” The last word is said half dubiously and half mocking.

Peggy walks away, unhappy and annoyed - and worried. Philips is not going to be happy; maybe she would be better off tricking Howard to go up again for surveillance if she can push him so far. She does not want to go for more fondue, but she’s also not ready to give up on Steve Rodgers just yet either. 

There’s got to be something. Where is he?

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, Steve and Bucky just can't escape trouble can they; but they had to get off a main track. Peggy explicately says in the movie that several airbourne scouts have gone up looking for him and could see no sign of him - and thanks to Mario now no one will see them: Allies or German's. How is everyone feeling about Bucky's state of mind; is he jealous of Steve or just worried for him?
> 
> Is this the start of their new reversed relationship? Because, the thing is: Steve and Bucky's friendship wasn't just a "they grew up so they're as close as brothers," thing, it's way more dynamic than that. Their relationship may be symbiotic, but it was never particularly balanced. Growing up, Steve was sickly and physically weak but had precisely the same personality as he does now; unendingly hopeful and moral, with no concept of backing down from a fight. Hence why he's constantly getting beaten up, with Bucky having to wade in and finish those fights for him. Bucky is incredibly protective of him, which must have caused a fair amount of confusion when Steve turned into a near-indestructible super solider.
> 
> It's a classic partnership between idealism (Steve) and pragmatic cynicism (Bucky), with Bucky playing the role of Steve's protector and #1 fan. It takes the supersolidier serum for everyone else to realise what Bucky knew all along: that Steve is an inspirational figure, destined for great things. The tables have turned, and now Bucky is walking in Steve's shadow, rather than the other way round - which just throws a whole extra wrench into the works of his recovery!
> 
> TYPES OF GUNS:  
THOMPSON - Bucky's gun that he picks up in the march. He later uses this as one of his many weapons in the film; notably in the dreaded train scene. The Thompson submachine gun is an American submachine gun invented by John T. Thompson in 1918 which became infamous during the Prohibition era, being a signature weapon of various organized crime syndicates in the United States.
> 
> WINCHESTER - Dugan's gun. The Winchester Model 1897, also known as the Model 97, M97, or Trench Gun, is a pump-action shotgun with an external hammer and tube magazine manufactured by the Winchester Repeating Arms Company. 
> 
> MG42 : The Maschinengewehr 1942, or MG42, is a German machine gun, first manufactured in 1942 as the successor to the MG34. During WWII, the MG42 had the fastest rate of fire of any weapon, at 1200 rounds per minute (up to 1800 in some versions).  
FG :The FG 42 (German: Fallschirmjägergewehr 42, "paratrooper rifle 42") is a selective-fire 7.92×57mm Mauser automatic rifle produced in Nazi Germany during World War II. 
> 
> RELIGIOUS REFERENCES  
LAST RITES SACRAMENT/PRAYER - Full use in writing: Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.  
May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.  
This is usually given by a priest before death of a loved one to ensure there could be a Final Confession so the party can go to Heaven.


	16. PART 10 (e.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe, Bucky thinks, the rest of the world will finally start seeing you for you. All it took was dangerous human experimentation, one hundred and eighty more pounds of muscle and an inconceivable rescue attempt the brass would never consider worth it.
> 
> It shouldn’t have ever taken that for them to see you Steve, but what am I meant to do now that they have?

There's two classical music tracks mentioned in this chapter, The Girl with the Flaxen Hair and Clair De Lune by Claude Debussy. I've attached links here and at the bottom notes if you would like to listen to them during or after the chapter. They are also my two favourite ones of Debussy :)

Girl with the Flaxen Hair: [MUSIC LINK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOxJpPiFe0k)  
Clair De Lune: [MUSIC LINK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNcsUNKlAKw)

STEVE

  
They’ve been walking a while, having started the uphill trek about an hour ago. Steve has once again appeared at his side, seemingly content to delegate the lead position now that they’ve reached the main overgrown path of their new route. They’ve been walking in a comfortable silence for most of it, having cooled off from the argument earlier; or at least Bucky’s too tired to stay angry. A couple of Privates occasionally chat to Steve about Washington, and how the city is now all the men have shipped out from it. Apparently nowhere near as different as most of the other cities, considering there’s still a good number of men still over there running the country and all. Washington is always a place Steve’s wanted to go, political nut that he is, and apparently is now a place he has been to several times during the USO tour; which Bucky is both glad - in that he didn’t have to listen to Steve’s liberal ranting - and jealous that he missed it. They’d had a deal, a childish blood-pact made from smeared nosebleeds when they were thirteen to go to Washington - Steve’s choice - and the Grand Canyon - Bucky’s choice - together before they died. Somehow, despite how childish it is, he can’t help but feel churlish and sore that Steve’s done half of their pact already.

“Bucky?”

He glances at Steve, forgetting again that his eyeline is now above him. “Yeah?” He answers, clearing his throat.

“What’s a…bal….a bal-e-vas?”

Bucky blinks at him, surprised, as he stumbles over the word. “Where the hell did you hear that from?”

“What does it mean? It’s obviously not English, or Latin.”

Bucky frowns at him, fingers tapping an incessant beat against the barrel of his Thompson. “It’s Romani.”

From Steve’s expression Bucky thinks his friend already knew that. He asks again, “What does it mean?”

“Bakalo or balavas?” Steve nods at the second. “Urgh, it’s like a good luck charm, in some dialects. That coin ma always wears around her neck - that’s a kind of balavas.”

Steve’s eyes seem to soften at the explanation. “And bakalo is what, good luck?”

Bucky shrugs, “Pretty much, I think? How did---”

“You said something the other day and I wasn’t sure what--”

“Wait,_ I_ said something?”

Steve hums, “That’s where I heard it from. You were outta your head at the time to be honest, but you’ve never really talked about your ma’s traditions before, so, well, I was just curious. I don’t know much about that side…”

“Neither do I, honestly.” Bucky replies, looking away to focus on heaving his body over a bank of uphill dirt. Steve supports his back and elbow from behind silently. “Just what she’s talked to me about, and she hasn’t done that in years. It um, it doesn’t really leave the family.”

“Oh right, sorry, if it’s private I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s_ you_. I don’t care.”

“Would your ma care?”

“Probably? Who knows? She’s not here though, and like I said, it’s you.”

Steve half-smiles at him, then catches him as he trips over a tree root.

“I’m starting to think you’ve grown an extra foot,” he quips at him once Bucky’s straightened back up and holding his Thompson securely again. They continue.

Bucky asks, unable to hold it back any longer; dreading the answer. “What did I say?”

“It wasn’t that you said anything much,” Steve seems to wave off, but then grins sickeningly sweet. “But that’s what you called me.”

“What?” Bucky blinks at him, dumbfounded. “I called you….”

“Yup,” Steve summarizes, looking much too pleased with himself. “You walked straight - or not so straight - up to me and called me your balavas.”

“Oh Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, already knowing where this is going. “That doesn’t mean--”

“Nope. You said it, by the grace of God and in front of witnesses at that. I’m your good luck charm.” Steve grins at him, shit-eating and teasing. “That’s so sweet Buck, who knew I meant so much to you, pal.”

“Shut up,” Bucky bites back, numbly, heat creeping up the back of his neck and across his cheeks. He tries to shove Steve, feeling almost sick with embarrassment. Steve dodges him easily, still grinning. Bucky see’s it dim slightly from the corner of his eye when he realises Bucky won’t look at him from the shame.

Bucky opens his mouth to - _what? Apologize?_

Steve clears his throat, and changes the subject deftly. “Sure was some shooting out there though, pal.”

Bucky’s hasn’t felt so grateful since Subject #64 offered him the cot for the first time. He just grunts in reply, his cheeks still flushed. His stomach is pulsing in time with his steps, and the ants crawling up and down his skin are back.

“Why did you never tell me you could shoot like that? And don’t tell me you never had the chance, not with all those letters you were writing from Wisconsin, or when you came back home before you shipped out. You had plenty of opportunity.”

Bucky half shrugs in reply. “Didn’t seem important.”

The thing was though, it_ was_ important. To his Drill Sergeant, who whistled high and long when Bucky made a bullseye shot at twenty-five meters the second time he’d ever held a real rifle before. It was important to the AIT First Officer in Wisconsin too, when they transferred him for additional training instead of shipping him out immediately with the rest of his unit in Basic. When they told him not everyone got pulled out for tactical training so fresh from civilian life, and to make full use of it and be grateful for the opportunity. And Bucky had been grateful for a while; for the chance to stay on American soil for just a little bit longer if not for the opportunity granted to him. Turns out, he was a damn good shot and a damn good solider.

Steve scoffs, seeing through him as usual. “Oh,_ come on._”

Bucky glances at him again, and half-admits-half-lies, “I wasn’t really supposed to tell anyone the details.”

He supposed he and Steve were a matched set in that - when it came to keeping secrets from each other with paper and pen. He’d never told him about Basic, Project Rebirth or the USO tour after all. They were top notch bullshitters, the both of them.

“What? That you were a good shot - or that they were training you up as a sniper? Seriously? With how much you like to brag I’d of thought you’d be all over that.”

“It was more than just that kinda’ training; other stuff too.” Bucky continues to admit, “But I never finished. They needed more G.I’s to ship out for the invasion of Sicily, that’s why I got promoted to Sergeant so quickly before seeing action.”

Steve frowns at him, “I thought the extra training was for leadership and command in the ranks. Was that a lie?”

“Yes and no.” Bucky grimaces, scratching at the back of his neck and sucking his stomach in. The sharp twinge of the staples shifting in his flesh distracts from the unavoidable itching of his skin. “That’s what I thought and what they told me before I got to Wisconsin, then they told me differently. I guess I figured there was no point in changing what I’d already told you. And I…”

“And you what?” Steve prompts a moment after he’s trailed off.

_And I didn’t want to talk about that and all the questions it would bring up. I wanted to talk about home. I wanted to hear the gossip Mr Reagan told you while you were shining his shoes, and how you were trying to save up to buy the twins a birthday gift from the both of us; and what did I think they’d like? I wanted to be able to read the letters in my bunk after training, aching and sore, and imagine myself back there too - going to classes and hauling crates part-time at the docks again._

_I didn’t want to waste valuable paper talking - and lying - about the interrogation tactics they were trying to teach me, or how I now knew how to disarm men twice my size and handle a knife in my left as well as my right. I didn’t want to talk about the war I was going into in a few short months time or how lonely and homesick it turned out I was._

Bucky shakes his head, huffing, and pushes the thought away. “Nothin’”

Steve unsubtly bats his hand away from where he’s started furiously scratching at his neck after a silent pause. Now that he’s started he can’t seem to stop. He vaguely remembers watching Andrew draw blood once from how much he was scratching in the dim moonlight when Bucky was too tired to stop him. It because a compulsion for the both of them in the end, he thinks, whether they were itchy or not. He tries to pointlessly disguise it by swatting a fly buzzing by his left ear without even thinking. That seems to make Steve frown more and gives off a strange sense of deja vou. _Will the deja vou ever stop, or will he trapped in it forever?_

Steve whistles softly to keep the conversation going. “Still. Some shooting though.”

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

“Shut up Rodgers,” Bucky replies, a pleased heat crawling up his neck this time.

“Take the compliment, Barnes.”

Bucky fails at biting back a smile. “Sure was some everything back there yourself.” He parrots back at him, “Looked like you didn’t even need a gun after all.”

“I still took one.”

_“Good.”_

“I do occasionally listen to you, you know.” Steve retorts, before letting them lapse into comfortable silence again. 

He slows a step behind Bucky to help him and another man up over a rock in their path. Bucky half misses a step once he’s over it and straightening up - too busy scratching and trying to keep hold of his gun to watch his feet. He doesn’t need to see Steve’s face to know the unimpressed frown is back. The red patch on his neck burns something fierce when he forces his nails away from it and back against the barrel of the Thompson. His hands are almost shaking from the compulsion to scratch, and he taps out an erratic rhythm with his fingers again to try to distract from it. Without clear notes or a melody to focus on it’s not working, so he forces himself to think about his ma’s handwritten sheet music meticulously copied from a library book and stained with coffee rings; handwriting blocky and newly-learnt. The first to come to his head is Debussy’s _Girl With the Flaxen Hair_; the second the famous_ Clair de Lune_ but he’s inexplicably ashamed to his bones that while he remembers the names - the actual notes and chorus are shrouded somewhere he can’t recall. As he’s trying and failing to remember; the erratic taps against his Thompson speed up until he’s almost scratching at it instead. 

He wipes at his eyes quickly and tries to clear the lump in his throat as Steve makes a remark to a solider on his right. He can’t remember.

“Do you know how The Girl with the Flaxen Hair starts?” He asks before he can stop himself.

Steve turns to raise his eyebrows, and answers almost immediately. “By…Debussy?” While Steve can draw something special he can’t hold a tune to save his life, but he knows his classical and his jazz music. “Well yeah, with how many times I heard you playing it through the walls or _next to my head_ I should think so. Why?

Bucky opens his mouth, then loses his nerve again. “No reason.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment and quickly steadies him when he misses another tree root. This hill is killing him, _how long have they been half-climbing by now?_ The tank and remaining trucks are a slow rumble behind him - scraping against the tree bark as the tank narrowly fits through the widest gaps in the forest. Bucky’s not looking forward to when they’re going to have to abandon it because if the hill gets any steeper or the trees any denser there’s no arguing around it. He goes to swat at the stubborn fly by his ear again.

Steve starts humming inexpertly next to him - quiet but clear. Bucky jerks to look at him but he’s looking forwards, one hand still hovering at Bucky’s back. The hums go higher and lower in pitch, slow and almost soothing. Bucky opens his mouth to ask what it is before he realizes himself. It’s _The Girl with the Flaxen Hair._ He sucks in a slow calming breath and looks forward himself - feels the bones of his fingers begin tapping out the first adult verse he ever learnt all the way through. He can feel himself able to focus with the melody suddenly over the ants crawling under his skin. He bites his tongue to keep from smiling as Steve butchers the chorus next to him and climbs effortlessly over a fallen tree. He offers Bucky a hand over, still humming.

. . .

  
Steve calls a halt as the tank stubbornly forces itself over the verge of the last hill, where a crumbling stone wall lines the perimeter of several old cottages. Bucky counts four from where he’s standing, missing sections of roofs or sometimes an entire back wall. One or two still have the glass panes intact in the window frames, wherein one he can see a dusty stove covered in dead leaves and animal excrement. There’s stubborn overgrown ivy covering an entire corner of the closest cottage; encroaching and entwined between the beams and the cracks in the stonework. There’s old wooden and metal fences taking up different area’s of the ‘gardens’ where Bucky presumes chickens must have been kept once, along with a trampled-on vegetable patch. The fitter men have already bee-lined there and are trying to pull out any carrots or cabbage left over.

Steve shakes two canteens to measure how much water is left in each and passes Bucky the fullest. He drinks greedily around his panting, his legs wobbly from the effort of the climb. 

“I’m going to go talk to Mario for a moment, will you be okay on your own?” His friend asks. 

Bucky nods as he swallows, water dribbling off his chin while he continues trying to catch his breath. “Yeah.” He breathes, “I just need a minute.”

Steve looks at him worriedly, the way he used to look at Steve when his asthma was acting up, but his friend can’t really say anything considering the majority of the men are panting and heaving with him; leaning against trees or sitting on crumbling walls.

If he sits he doesn’t think he’ll get back up - so he’ll keep on going, he supposes.

“You mind doing me a favour when you can?” Steve asks.

Bucky swallows another gulp of water and wipes his mouth, nodding. “Uh huh? What do you need?”

This, at least, is a familiar question and familiar territory. 

Steve hands him the other canteen, “Fill that and the other up for me - there should be a well. Mario says it hasn’t been filled or has dried out. Check that it’s safe to drink first though.” 

Bucky makes a face at the last warning, “I’m not an idiot. And I know what you’re doing.”

“Oh?”

“You’re just trying to make me feel useful.”

Steve shrugs at him, walking backwards, “I never said that.”

“Don’t mean it’s not true.”

“That waters not going to fill itself!” Steve calls over his shoulder as he spins away.

Bucky coughs into his hand and calls back, “Oh, you trust me to get your water now do you? Nice change of pace there.”

“Don’t be an ass!” Steve yells back, unconcerned, over his shoulder right as Bucky flips him off - knowing it’s coming. 

He mutters “Punk” to himself and goes to do as he’s told.

He wanders for a while around the little copse of cottages, realising it’s bigger than he first thought. There’s another couple of houses and a small barn beyond some small grazing fields. They must have kept a few sheep or goats here too, Bucky muses, maybe even a work-horse. Lily used to chase the milk cart down two blocks when she was little, at least three times a week, so she could pat the chestnut pulling it. The milkman eventually succumbed to her charms and after four months of the debacle it was having to chase after her every morning, he allowed Bucky to lift her high up and onto the horse’s back once. He remembers her smile, gap-toothed and blinding during soggy weather. Christ he missed the girls, when had he written them last?

There’s a line at the well; men carrying small canteens and larger containers alike, hovering haphazardly around the same area on all sides. Bucky can’t tell where the queue begins or ends, so carries on walking a while until it’s shorter. His little village adventure ends at another larger house with two floors on the boundary edge, along with what must have been the old road up to this small civilization. The path has since been overtaken by sharp brambles and nettles, with poisonous red berries and juicy blackberries alike.

He makes a point of picking the largest and shiniest of the blackberries he can reach, collecting a stack of them in his palm, the canteens tucked securely under his armpit. His stomach rumbles. He crushes one in his fingers first, just because he can, until it spurts open and stains his fingers purple. He pops another two in his mouth until they burst sweet and sour on his tongue. He has hazy memories of collecting berries in a cloth bag with much smaller hands and running back to his grandparents' house to show his nana his spoils. He remembers her always bopping him on the nose before going back to rolling out pastry, and the way her smile used to wobble with her false teeth. 

She’d always then spoon out slices of pie twice his and Becca’s size to scoff down until they felt sick, and lecture their pa on how they needed to cut it out with the city life nonsense and move back to Indiana where they belonged. She’d say it every visit and with every fruit pie, and his grandfather would grunt at them from his position at the head of the table. Pa always used to politely wave her off, he remembers, until his nana would get upset and they’d start fighting over the evening sherry. Bucky himself had never felt like he belonged in Indiana, maybe not even New York now, but the blackberries still taste the same.

He picks another couple before continuing to wander along the edge, half patrolling the area. He seems to be one of the first on this side at least; listening out if not actively looking for enemies; palm stacked with berries held out in front of him; Thompson hanging limply by it’s strap against his thigh. There’s an old orchard up ahead behind the taller house. He tosses back the whole handful of berries in one go and lets them explode against his tongue and the back of his teeth before gently pushing the creaking door open. He swallows, and with his purple stained hand untucks the knife he pulled from a Nazi’s waistband from his narrow hipbone. He’s had it there for hours, unable to stuff it anywhere else before someone saw. 

Vaguely, he realizes if they’ve let him keep the gun they’ll let him keep a knife too, but somehow, he feels like the possession needs to stay a secret. There’s a swastika carved into the handle, painted red. He closes his hand around it in a defensive position and peeks around each of the three rooms downstairs. He’s alone.

He dumps the canteens on a chipped bedside table and gives up; lowering his wobbling legs and aching body onto the springy mattress in the main bedroom. Dust spores sparse the air when he lands, visible in the beams of sunlight coming through the open shutter. Twisting the hold on the knife in one hand he pulls the strap of his Thompson off his shoulder and raises his shirt to look at his stomach.

How many staples has he already taken out? How many does he have left to go? His flesh has started to swallow two more, as well as the first he can feel burrowed deep near his ribcage, but the flesh has also split around the sixth and the seventh near his belly button. Probably from the blast. There’s dried blood caked around the metal, and small cuts and dirt along his right side.

He breathes, and scratches his arm once, twice, three times. Time to get to work.

. . .

They walk maybe fifteen more miles through the forest, the hungriest men chewing on the orchard apples, camping down again in a dense valley for the night and up again at dawn. Bucky’s pretty sure none of the men, all four-hundred of those left sleep much if at all; too tense and paranoid about another attack. Steve certainly doesn’t seem to sleep after he finally lays down late in the night - tossing and turning on the other side of the foxhole.

He watches Steve silently for nearly an hour, closing his eyes whenever his friend turns over to glance at him. At some point during his pretending he must drift off, because everything goes and stays dark until he opens his eyes again to see Steve’s cold patch of ground empty and daylight peeking through the thick trees. He rolls onto his back but keeps one hand over his stomach from where he’s been cradling it all night, and absentmindedly scratches at his arm. The phantom ants under his skin finally began to taper off during the night, but his forearm and neck still feel raw from the scratching.

The men laying beside him in close quarters, either still asleep or pretending to be, are bundled up as much as they can be but are still shivering. Bucky can hear their teeth chattering like they’re gnashing right next to his ears, as if the heightened volume is deliberately designed to get on his nerves. Belatedly he realizes his breaths are coming out in white puffs of frost air, he’s not shivering, and he has Steve’s jacket half-draped over his shoulders again. He sits up slowly, ribs aching worse now the bruises have had time to settle in, and blearily rubs at his eyes to see nearly everyone, bar Steve in his red-and-blue feeling the uncomfortable effects of winter. 

He’s almost not surprised that he isn’t feeling it to the same effect. The cold’s like the sight of blood, he decides; if you have enough exposure to it eventually it doesn’t bother you so much anymore. Like the Syphilis and the Scarlet Fever he beat without even knowing he was infected, maybe he’s had so much exposure to fever chills and the phantom cold in his bones he’s immune to the real thing as well now. This jacket would probably be more use to someone else.

He wants to stay in this dirty little dig out and burrow forever deeper - he’s so tired. He gets up anyway, grunting and cringing at the pain in his back. As he levers himself up with one hand he subtly slides his other under the grimy shirt to check the slice down his middle. No blood, which is great, just a crusty scab starting to form - the first staple is still under his skin. There was no way to cut it out without bleeding too much, so he'll have to wait for later when he can change his shirt. On the other hand, he’s finally come back to true awareness now that he can quite literally smell himself. The crusty stiff fabric of his pants and trousers chafe something awful from where he must have pissed himself god knows when, the feeling only now registering fully.

He’d say this was a low-point - but he knows he’s been lower. Lower even than entrusting his sanity to cats with bird’s beaks and pigeons with scales. Lower than standing in a room full of bodies and begging for death. Here and now, there’s so much farther he can, and has, to fall.

He taps Steve on the shoulder, who jerks from where he’s repacking a truck. He twists quickly; Bucky backs up a step, hands up. “Your jacket.” He says.

Steve’s shoulders immediately drop at the sight of him.

“Bit jumpy, aren’t we?” He adds afterwards, forcing the jacket into Steve’s empty hands. “Jesus, cover up would you? That star on your back is practically invitin’ someone to shoot you.”

Steve pulls half a face at him at the last comment, shrugging it on. He replies to the first, “Scared me a little there is all, I didn’t hear you come up, which is new. Since when did you learn to be quiet? Can normally hear you coming a mile off.” He adds after, elbowing Bucky. “Sorry. Just a little on edge is all.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else here.”

He and Steve lean back against the frame of the truck together, watching the men shifting tensely on the ground. “How long have you been up?”

“Not too long. Didn’t sleep much.” Steve admits. Bucky hums in reply. “You managed to get some shut-eye at the end. At least a couple of hours.” Bucky glances at him evasively. “Oh come on Buck, you used to spend half your evenings in Ma’s apartment when we were kids, and then basically shared a single room together for three years. I know when you’re trying to fake it, you know?”

Bucky can allow that, true as it is. “I guess I must have gone at some point, yeah. Feel more tired now if anything else though.”

Steve grimaces in sympathy, “When was the last time you had a full nights sleep?”

He shrugs back, “The last time I realized it was night? How should I know?”

There’s a long pause of silence; someone a ways off starts coughing into his elbow.

“You just need a full night, or maybe two, of proper honest shut-eye and you’ll feel miles better. As right as rain in no time, I’m sure.”

It’s a nice idea in theory, and Steve seems, and sounds like he’s desperately hoping it’ll be true. “If you say so, pal.”

“It’s the magic cure, don’t forget?” He continues, “An hour of sleep is a treat, but--”

“--A full night is a gift from God, who sheds your sins and sickness alike.’ I remember.”

Steve grins at him, disbelieving. “I didn’t know you remembered all of it.”

He scoffs, “How could I not? Your ma only had to repeat it three times a day whenever you were coughing your lungs up and _still wouldn’t stay in bed._ Had to wrestle you to keep you down at one point, I’m sure.”

“_You_ _did not_.”

“Okay, maybe I didn’t.” He admits, “But you’re still an annoying little berk when you’re sick. Anytime I wasn’t terrified to death for you I wanted to wallop you over the head. But smacking the sick silly to shut them up and keep them down isn’t exactly approved of for us Church going folk.”

Steve barks out a laugh, “You’re probably right there.”

“Though maybe if I’d walloped you _with a bible_ that mighta’ canceled that out; and then we really would of seen if you’d shut your trap and stayed in bed.” 

Steve’s laughter quietens to chuckles as a man curses them out for waking him, leaning back further into the truck to observe the camp.

“How far now?” Bucky asks as soon as the shuffling stops; to keep the quiet from taking.

Steve knows what he means, “Not far. Another days walk, maybe another night bedding down. It’s a lot easier terrain from here apparently, mostly downhill. We haven’t managed to get any of the radios working but Mario reckons we’re a mile off Italian soil, which is something, huh?”

_Italian soil is still the front_, Bucky thinks, wishing he could share in Steve’s optimism. His friend nods to himself, and continues to speak. 

“Depends on how fast the men are moving, and a lot of them are starting to flag. Empty bellies will do that I suppose.” As if on cue, Steve’s stomach rumbles so loudly it almost seems like it must have hurt. 

A thought occurs. “When was the last time you ate?”

Steve waves him off, “Oh, don’t worry about me Bucky--”

“No seriously.” Bucky bites back, old instinct rearing it’s head. “When did you last eat? You didn’t last night.” He realizes, “Christ, how did I not realize you didn’t eat last night?”

“Buck. Bucky!” His friend calls, grabbing him by the elbow to cajole him into calmness. He abruptly and sharply lets go when Bucky winces at the sting. “I’m fine. Honest.” He repeats, “One missed meal’s not gonna’ do me in.”

Bucky frowns at him, searching for his second string argument. He finds it, “Didn’t you say that the serum, with you bulking up and all, made your appetite get bigger? That you needed to eat more than the rest of us to function now.”

“Well…yeah.” Steve admits, knowing Bucky has him there, because he did say that. “But like I said, one meal isn’t gonna’ make---what are you doing?” He cuts himself off in bewilderment when Bucky starts searching his pockets. “No Buck, seriously--” He tries to start again when Bucky pulls the lemoned candies from his pocket.

“--Take some.” He says without preamble.

“Buck--”

_“Take some.”_

Steve rolls his eyes at him, but obliges. “You’re such a mother-hen. Two for two.” He adds until Bucky knocks his own sweet against Steve’s in a camadrie cheers like they’re clanking together hooch in a dive bar. Bucky rolls his eyes, and cracks the sweet between his teeth. It’s not as good as the blackberries - he should have saved Steve some, or made sure he got an apple yesterday before they ran out if he was gonna' secretly skip the evening ration. After a pause of crunching candy he asks:

“What happens when we get back?”

“We get you and all the other men fed and seen to for starters-”

“No. To you. Your agent helped but it wasn’t exactly a sanctioned mission. You didn’t have orders.”

Steve sighs, cold air puffing out from his mouth and nose. “Put myself forward for a court martial I suppose.”

“Sounds like a swell idea.”

Steve clearly hears the sarcasm, and challenges: “Well what else am I supposed to do?”

“Not hang yourself out to dry without a fight? That’s one idea. I don’t want you getting locked up Steve.”

“That’s not something any of us can control. That’s up to Colonel Philips or whoever else is in command there now, you know that--”

“I’m not letting them lock you up-” he repeats, adamant, before Steve cuts him off.

“And _I’m_ not letting you do something stupid yourself after all of this. Besides it might not happen - I hope it won’t but - like I said, it’s not up to me. I did break orders, even if I’m not technically one of the troops, so I gotta’ face the consequences for that. I don’t regret it for a second though.”

“You might…”

“I won’t.”

_ He sounds so sure,_ Bucky can’t help but think and sighs out in defeat, muttering to himself. “You and your goddamn principles.”

_Why can’t you just run Steve; just run far far away from this war, from this hell pit of mud and blood? _

_For once, can you just not stand your ground? _

Steve laughs quietly into the morning, seemingly oblivious. “Yeah, I know, it’s a real hardship for you. Maybe you should find a new friend.”

The familiar rapport is like a smack to the face, but easy enough to fall back into; like riding a bike. He replies without a beat, flatly mocking. “Probably easier to deal with than you.”

“Probably.” Steve agrees, lips quirking, having steered the conversation away from dangerous territory; perhaps not as oblivious as Bucky first thought. The pleading words disappear from his lips and sink back down his throat in a dry swallow as Steve leans into his shoulder carelessly. “I don’t think you will though.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“You had that chance a hundred times over when we were kids with Richard Callohan and Johnny Shelby and all the baseball team. You got principles too pal, and apparently sticking by me is one of them. You’re all talk, Buck.”

With that statement out there in the dawning air, Steve sounds strangely touched; like he’d been when they were thirteen and Bucky waved off the Little League team so he could go play conkers inside with ‘runty Rodgers’. They never really seriously asked him again after that and Bucky doesn’t think Steve’s really understood those choices made a decade ago.

_ Thing was, they weren’t as good as you,_ Bucky thinks but doesn’t say,_ and I always would have chosen the conkers._ He hums, “I suppose you might be right.”

“Gotta’ happen some time.” Steve quips, “Come on, lets start getting them up, I wanna see if we can make it all the way today.”

Bucky breathes deeply, eyes shut for a moment, then heaves his weight away from the truck. “Let’s get going then,” he agrees again. Steve stops him, hand on his shoulder.

“Are you sure your feeling alright?”

Bucky shrugs, “I will be, eventually.” He prays, as impossible as it seems, and focuses on the simple things and not the live landmine that is his brain, waiting for one wrong step. “It’d be a lot quicker as soon as I can get my hands on a bar of soap.”

Steve nods, and squeezes his shoulder in support. “I think we’ll both be glad of that pal, you need three.”

“Thanks for that, does miles for my confidence.”

“We all have to draw the line somewhere, and your stink is one of them. The longer we stay up and vertical, the sooner we can get you your shower. Come on.” Steve says at last, jostling him playfully. 

. . .

The thing is, Steve’s all talk too, and they both know it. 

. . .

  
And in thirty more miles, after one more tense sleep than they’d like; four hundred men stumble and march, proud and determined into an American camp at exactly 9:26 in the morning. Bucky’s at the front, side by side with Steve as always. The scouts see them a mile off, and are so stunned to see American uniforms and the dancing monkey of the USO tour marching ahead of a tank they don’t raise the alarm properly until they’re just about to cross the boundary.

Thirty more miles, after one more tense sleep than they’d like; a crowd of cheering G.I’s form around them and Steve submits himself for a court martial. 

After thirty more miles, at 9:34 in the morning, Steve Rodgers stops being Steve Rodgers and instead becomes Captain America, the star-spangled man with the plan to win the war.

_Maybe,_ Bucky thinks,_ the rest of the world will finally start seeing you for you._ All it took was dangerous human experimentation, one hundred and eighty more pounds of muscle and an inconceivable rescue attempt the brass would never consider worth it.

_It shouldn’t have ever taken that for them to see you Steve, but what am I meant to do now that they have?_

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've arrived back at Base! Hallelujah! We got there eventually, welcome to Act Three and PART 11 onwards in the next chapter! So how do we all feel Bucky AND Steve are going to cope with the coming events? Will Bucky deal with his shit? Will Steve learn to become a true leader and finally begin believing in himself? What will their first mission be? What will they get each other for the coming Christmas? What terrible jokes is Dugan going to make? How will Dugan and Morita build their bromance? What will Josie say about his adventure into the hills? What will happen when Steve finally lands in London for the first time? How many inside jokes will we uncover throughout the story? So so many questions, but not so many clear answers.
> 
> Thanks again for all your support, especially Ifis, Cheeseontoast (you know your name ;) ) Olareema and Hakanaki! You're comments make my day every time I get one. And welcome all new readers! Sorry this was posted a little later in the evening on Thursday, today for once was a busy day and I was a little delayed on proof-reading this Chapter on AO3 and inputing the italics.
> 
> As we begin on this new journey, I thought maybe we could cross some things off our summary song checklist, as I know at least one of you is a little lost on what we've had and haven't had. Let's take ourselves back:
> 
> " On the first month of war, my true love sent to me,  
One depraved doctor, two troubled boys, three Italian Fronts, four dancing monkeys...five commandos…six Hydra bases, seven soldiers swimming, eight shades of red, nine goggled goons, ten dancing dames, eleven eagles circling, twelve gunners gunning and A Partridge in a Pear Tree. "
> 
> 1\. One depraved doctor: Zola Check X  
2\. Two troubled boys : Steve and Bucky or Bucky and Andrew - matter of opinion. Check X  
3\. Three Italian Fronts: We've had one, Azzano, what are the others going to be?  
4\. Four dancing monkeys: Steve was the dancing monkey, as his role in the Propaganda tour, and he was that dancing monkey for FOUR months - so four dancing monkeys. Check X  
5\. Five commandos : Speaks for itself, and they're all here and raring to go. Check X.  
6\. Six Hydra bases : The bases Steve saw on the map in Zola's lab, but there's far more than six lets be honest, that would be too easy for our heroes...…?  
7\. Seven soldiers swimming : ??????????  
8\. Eight shades of red : ??????? Peggy's lipstick? Josie's hair? Blood? Peggy's dress? Who knows ????????????????  
9\. Nine goggled goons : Bucky and Andrew killed nine Hydra goons on their attempted escape. Check X  
10\. Ten dancing dames : USO dancers. Check X  
11\. Eleven eagles circling : ?????????  
12\. Twelve gunners gunning : ????????  
13\. And a partridge in a Pear Tree : Are we going to see a Partridge? Will it be in a pear tree? Who knows??
> 
> .  
NOTE TO REMEMBER: There is no errant fly by Bucky's left ear.
> 
> .REFERENCES  
BALAVAS : Good luck charm in some Romany dialects.  
BAKALO: Good luck in some Romany dialects.  
BIXBAT: Bad luck in some Romany dialects.
> 
> CLAUDE DEBUSSY - GIRL WITH THE FLAXEN HAIR: Written in 1909-1910, it's one of the classic Debussy compositions. Here's a link if you would like to listen to it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOxJpPiFe0k
> 
> CLAUDE DEBUSSY - CLAIR DE LUNE: Written in 1895 but not released until 1905, it's probably the most famous of Debussy's compositions. Here's a link if you like to listen to it.  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNcsUNKlAKw
> 
> CONKERS GAME: Conkers is a traditional children's game played using the seeds of horse chestnut trees—the name 'conker' is also applied to the seed and to the tree itself. The game is played by two players, each with a conker threaded onto a piece of string: they take turns striking each other's conker until one breaks.


	17. PART 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’d be surprised how much power you can have if you make the right request, Peggy’d said the last time they’d seen each other. They were helpful words, Becca's words calling him an asshole and asking what the hell was going on constantly, were not so much.

STEVE

  
Things suddenly start moving very quickly. There’s barked orders, engines starting up and telegrams firing out at inconceivable speeds. It’s an confusing change of pace from the slow tense march of the last few days. 

Just as quick as the crowd formed they disperse, war nurses shoving their way forwards with army doctors, and quickly and efficiently start herding the wounded and limping men into overcrowded tents. The rest are handed off to food tents or other outlying areas while camp quartermasters rush round trying to accommodate four hundred more men than they were expecting.

Peggy hovers close by among the men slapping each others backs, long enough to raise an eyebrow and jerk her head at Bucky. Steve manages to nod and smile at her; _yes, this was his friend_ before Philips’ bark of “Carter!” comes from somewhere unseen.

“I’ll be back”, she says, then tells him to get something to eat.

Bucky’s shifting from foot to foot behind him, but successfully managing to avoid any nurses’ searching hands. Steve says, “It’s taken three days longer than I wanted it to, but we’re getting you checked out. No arguments -_ come on_.” With that he grabs Bucky by the shoulder and physically steers him towards one of the medic tents.

To say it’s hectic is an understatement - the place looks as though it was full before their march arrived - now it’s _pandemonium._ It’s rather awful, in all honesty.

“Join the line.” A gruff looking doctor without a white coat, but with sleeves stained with blood up to the elbows, says to them - “If your walking you’ll have to wait.”

There’s nothing to do but follow his orders this time, and following orders instead of giving them is a relief in itself. Bucky spends the entire time grumbling and arguing with him until another harried looking doctor - grey-haired and bearded - waves them over and hurriedly checks Bucky over in a dim-lit corner of the tent still standing. The man tries to morbidly joke about the five-star accommodation; “No beds let alone cubicles for you boys, only seems fair considering your not paying the fees. Only giving your lives for the country instead.” He scoffs derisively at the end.

“Haven’t ever had a hospital to compare it to doc, so don’t sweat it.” Bucky replies, grunting when the man runs his hands down the sides of his ribs. 

Steve explains about the truck and the explosions in the firefight. Bucky’s back is as tense as he’s ever seen it the entire time. The man diagnoses Bucky with bruises and possibly a fractured rib all without taking his shirt off, and is about to send him on his way to Steve’s dismay when he spots his elbows.

The doctor, while gruff in words is gentle-handed. Bucky still jerks his arms back like he’s been scalded when the man goes to touch them. “Have you seen a doctor already, Sergeant?” The man looks half suspicious and half annoyed that they may have wasted his time. Steve answers the negative when it seems Bucky doesn’t plan to. The doctor harrumphs, frowning, and Bucky kicks Steve behind his back when he opens his mouth to explain the marks. He remembers Bucky’s scabby feet layered in dried blood and clicks his teeth together without fully understanding why he is. The man asks for Bucky’s name to check off his list and lets them leave with little to no fanfare - already onto the next patient.

It’s all a little anti-climatic than what Steve was expecting, and he’s a little lost when he walks back out into the sunlight. Before he has a chance to turn back round Peggy appears from nowhere, “Have you eaten?”

“Um,” Steve splutters inexpertly. “Not - Not yet.”

“I told you to eat.”

“I was -” he motions behind him to the tent when he catches sight of the sun, and realizes and hour or so must have passed in the time they were waiting to be seen.

“Ah.” Peggy replies, understanding. “I suppose that explains it, I can’t imagine it’s roses and daises in there.” Without preamble she leans past him to look at Bucky, whose no doubt judging every poorly conceived word out of his mouth - speaking to his friend for the first time. “Have you at least been seen, Sergeant?”

“All clear, ma’m.” He answers, putting on a brave and an as always effective smile when Steve glances back at him.

“Good. Well get something to eat quickly. We fly out in just under an hour.”

“Fly out? Where?”

“London. Your report will need to be heard by more than just us here - you’ve caused quite a stir.”

For a good few moments Steve can’t think of anything else to say other than; “That was quick.” Bucky subtly pokes him in the back in a way that his disappointment is evident.

“Intelligence of this extravagance normally is.” Peggy answers without a beat. “I’ll see you at the gate in twenty minutes, I can’t push it any longer if we want to make it to the airfield in time.”

“Right okay, yes I can---No _wait-_\--” He quickly backtracks, hand going automatically to where his friend is stood. He can’t just leave. Not when---

“Several hundred of the POWs are getting flown out as well for debrief.” Peggy interrupts, her eyes kind but words professional. “I’ll ensure Sgt. Barnes is on the first plane with you.”

Steve sighs out, hoping his sincerity is evident. “Thank you, Agent Carter.”

She nods at him, already turning. “Twenty minutes, Captain. I expect you not to be late this time.”

. . .

  
An hour later Steve’s boarding a small plane, hastily eaten bread and stew sitting heavy in his stomach, with several officers, Peggy and about twenty of the prisoners he freed. 

Apparently there’s two much larger planes flying in at unspecified times tomorrow and the day after for the rest of them once the remaining officers have determined whose accounts hold the most relevance to the Allied brass in London. That Bucky’s on the plane with him now, to anyone who isn’t them or Peggy is quite simply pure dumb luck; and Steve has to consider again how many pockets she has a hold on and how she got to where she is. He’s more impressed with every moment that passes. When she straps herself and an army pack in diagonal to the them, Bucky grunts and mutters, “Agent, huh?” under his breath. He promptly passes out next to Steve ten minutes into the flight, having been fighting sleep since getting in the truck on the way to the airfield. After a while Steve decides to try and join him, but finds once again he can’t; too riled up for what might be coming in London. 

Now he’s not going to the city to preach and dance for the woman, but no children, with the USO tour he has no idea what to expect. He sighs out harshly, staring at the ceiling of the cargo plan and listening to the engine rumbling behind his skull.

“He looks comfy.”

His head switches to the side quickly, barely concealing his slight jump at Peggy’s voice. Everyone else around them, bar Philips and the pilots who are muttering to themselves at the front, seem to be sleeping; but Peggy’s watching him with an eyebrow raised.

Clearing his throat he glances to the side to see Bucky has slumped further down in his seat, head leaning against the strap of his seat-belt and half into Steve. His mouth’s hanging open, and for the first time since Krausberg, he’s not twitching in his sleep. He huffs out a laugh, half grinning at Peggy.

“Figures it would be on the loudest plane journey that he finally lets himself go.” He answers.

Peggy sets aside a file filled with random words and symbols - and the code she seems to be deconstructing vertically down the side of it - closing it tightly before Steve can read it upside down. “I for one would say our plane journey was far louder.”

Steve has to give her that. “True. This is definitely an improvement from flying through German-held airspace.”

Peggy’s eyes flash with a smile before she glances at Bucky when he half shivers in his seat. “Does he normally look so terrible?”

Steve glances at Bucky sadly, “Not normally no.”

“What did the camp doctor say?” Peggy asks, kind but shrewd. So subtly that Steve almost misses it, her eyes flick down to Bucky’s now covered elbows and bruised neck, and a older circular burn on his collarbone Steve knows comes from a cigarette.

She, like Steve, knows better than to believe his “all clear, ma’m.” The difference is while Steve’s knowledge comes from fourteen years of friendship, hers comes from trained awareness. Close to a hundred thoughts fly through his head in the seconds before he answers, half the truth and half lies. She, in many ways is far more trustworthy than the camp doctor, and she’s more knowledgeable when it comes to Hydra and the serum. She was the one who orchestrated Erskine's escape from Hydra and refugee in the US after all. She knows more about the situation than anyone which could be both a good thing and a bad thing - because she would know what it means if Hydra did perfect their version of the serum.

Steve can only hope that all of the Hydra doctor’s research, whoever he is, was destroyed in the explosion with the rest of the factory. He hopes to god Bucky may be his only conceivable advance in it, if that is even what he is, whether his friend does realize it or not._ But what will it mean if he is? _

“Badly bruised and malnourished, but mostly just exhausted. “ He answers instead, like he did with the doctor, but admits, “he wasn’t in a good state when I found him.”

She nods, “With any luck he’ll be recovered soon. I’m glad you found him alive Steve - though you certainly kept us waiting.”

“It’s a long story, but I suppose I’ll have to save it for the debrief?”

She nods again.

He can’t help but ask. “I didn’t get you in too much trouble, did I?”

She smirks at him, a subtle quirk of her lips, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, “Well now, _that_ almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It might have---_yes_. It definitely was.” He can feel himself flushing a little, but she’s definitely smiling now, of that he’s sure. 

She reopens her file and rests it on a crossed leg at an angle to hide the page from him. “You’ve improved, you know, the fourth time round.”

“I’m sorry?”

“At speaking to women. You’re much better at speaking to them than you were in that taxi. If nothing else Senator Brandt’s tour has improved your confidence.”

Steve blushes again, and tries to paste the charming grin he watched Bucky perfect in the mirror when they were seventeen on his face. “After you’ve spent hours in the dressing rooms of twenty women complaining about holes in their pantyhose and how to find that perfect shade of red you tend to realize they’re not as scary as you thought they were.”

Peggy chuckles, and marks something off on her paper. “I’ve heard that and much worse in my childhood; men will probably never grasp the conversations that go on in an all-girls school.”

“Dirtier jokes?”

“Oh definitely. Much more than you will have heard in you Catholic School.”

“I can imagine,” he can’t help but add, “from some of the stuff I heard when they forgot I was in the room.”

Peggy smiles and hums, looking down at her paper still. “I’ll bet.” She adds quietly, focused, then huffs in disbelief, scribbling on the page. “It’s like their not even trying.” She mutters under her breath.

She continues scribbling, pen on paper, pleased but almost annoyed that she’s broken whatever code is on the page so easily. She likes challenges, Peggy Carter does; he can tell. She’s not one to take the easy route out. He waits until she seems to be finished.

“Peg--Agent Carter?”

She glances up, “Yes Steve?”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but, what exactly should I expect in London?” 

She lowers her pen back down to give him her full attention again. “From the Generals and the Officers - probably somewhat like your expecting - harsh questions with clear answers; ones that will undoubtedly grate at you. You mustn’t let them get at you. Answer honestly, most importantly. These men have done this a hundred times before and the debrief will last hours - and there will probably be more than one. If you lie, they will find out. Not that I expect you will,” She faces him again.

“I won’t soften it for you Steve, it’ll be exhausting; they will question every decision and choice you made and make you feel as though you made the wrong one. Remain firm, but respectful in your conviction -don’t doubt yourself, and with any luck you’ll be out in time before last call.”

Steve huffs, pleased and grateful for her honesty. “I think a bed is more of a priority than a whisky at the end of the night Agent Carter.”

Mildly, she adds, “As for the politicians; just imagine Senator Brandt on steroids and a room of them at that. I’m sure you’ll get the picture.”

He grimaces, “I have to expect more of that too?”

She gives him a look. “You rescued four hundred men, Steve; walked sixty miles with them back to safety and returned with what will be invaluable technology and intel on the Nazi’s Scientific Division. You’re a hero. I’d damn well say you should get used to it.”

“I didn’t bring down that entire factory on my own--”

“--That’s not what I heard---”

“--I _didn’t_. And I didn’t win those firefights in my own either, it was a team effort. And there were casualties.”

“There are always casualties.”

Steve’s head snaps back up at her words, and seeing it, she seems to soften her tone. “It’s harsh but true. We’re at war. I am sorry you lost those men though, I’m sure you did everything you could.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“I thought I already told you to keep your conviction. Don’t doubt yourself, if you do you’ll never be able to sleep. You did everything you could, Steve.”

“You haven’t heard my report yet,” he argues, almost feebly. _How many men has he killed in the last week? One, ten, twenty - more?_

“I don’t need to.” Peggy replies without a beat, and unclips herself from her seat to head towards Philips with her broken code. “I have _faith_, and I’m rarely wrong.”

. . .

  
“Are we there yet?”

“Nearly.”

They touch down at exactly noon, and are immediately hurried off board, and then taken by bus across the city. Bucky numbly follows him from the plane to the bus, still half asleep. He comes to more when he spies Big Ben and lines of lines of barrage balloons in the sky through the window, and asks about the girls. For a hot, inexplicable second, Steve goes blank on who the girls are, then almost smacks himself. He tells Bucky about Becca’s secret fella’ she was keeping quiet, which at first he thinks is a bold faced lie. 

“What’s his name?”

“So you can go warn him off?”

“No-_Yes_.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’d like to see you try and give him the shovel talk all the way over the Pacific, pal.”

He relays Lily’s request, again, to send any European bird feathers he finds over for her collection and finds out Buck never got her letter or Steve’s last two.

“Last one I got from you was written in August and I couldn’t read half of that ‘cause the ink had run.” Bucky’s voice, while now clear and awake, is dead to the ears. He only truly comes back to himself when Steve mentions the condolence letter sent out, at which point he jerks out his seat.

“I know. I know.” Steve quickly jumps in, “But it was probably only just sent out, we’ll send our own as soon as we can, it won’t be long. _I know.”_ He keeps repeating it, because he does know; he remembers what it was like to get George Barnes letter of death, sealed and stamped. He remembers Winfred Barnes knocking on their door at one in the afternoon, tear tracks on her cheeks and the twins hugged tight to her.

Bucky ends his spiral rather quickly considering, sagging back into his seat. “I forgot about the letters, how could I forget about the letters?” He seems quietly distraught about it in a way Steve hasn’t seen before - and bus ride finishes in a silence that isn’t quite comfortable anymore.

Peggy taps him on the shoulder as he goes to stand with the others and motions for him to stay seated. “We have another stop yet. You’ll be brought back here when we’re done.”

Bucky won’t quite look him in the eye as he shuffles past Steve’s knees to leave the bus, and with Peggy standing at his shoulder - he’s not quite sure what to say as his friend walks away and is handed a winter coat. The armed guard returns to his position at the head of the bus; Peggy takes a new seat behind him, and the engine rumbles into movement. Steve slides into Bucky’s previous spot and watches London’s landmarks flitting into vision between the white washed buildings of Wimbledon. Now that he’s looking properly, he realizes this is not as picturesque as the quiet American cities he’s been to. London is bustling with people still, but every third building or so there is a pile of rubble or empty space. There are women and older men sweeping bricks, dust and broken glass off the main streets, and a milkman finishing his rounds, climbing over a pile of rubble under a crumbling archway. There’s stacks and stacks of sandbags atop one other everywhere, and armed soldiers standing at attention. There’s posters dotted on the buildings and bus stops, ’KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON’ blazoned across the front of them.

A lone paper boy has made himself taller by four feet, stood on the base of a statue missing it’s head and chest, yelling about Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin at the Tehran conference, paper in hand. Everyone, quite literally it seems, is stubbornly carrying on in the devastation.

“It’s not quite like New York is it?” Peggy comments from behind him.

He huffs out a breath. He knew, but clearly he didn’t _know._ “New York isn’t getting bombed every night... But everyone seems to be--”

“Carrying on as normal? Stubborn British pride, not much else to it.” Peggy explains, “It is different though, than how it used to be. The first bomb was dropped three years ago, and before you knew it they were everywhere, indiscriminate. We’re still recovering from the worst of Blitz now, years later, and every-time there’s progress they drop another hundred or so.” Peggy sighs, “I worry sometimes, that we’ll get so accustomed to bunkers and blackouts that eventually we forget what we used to be.”

Steve looks back at her, and from her face can see she’s just admitted to a worry she’d normally keep private. He feels like he needs to honour the trust she’s just unwittingly counted him in. He replies, soft but sincere. “If all the British are as stubborn and strong as you, then I have faith they won’t.”

He seems to have said something of the right thing as Peggy looks at him out of the corner of her eye, then she smiles. “Well that was a sly one.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, _Agent._”

“_Captain_.”

Before he can say anything else the bus lurches to a stop in gridlocked traffic, and Peggy and Philips stand. 

“We might as well get off here, we’re not far.” Philips says briskly then strides off the bus, pack in hand. Steve jumps to his feet quickly to catch up and match their pace. They turn a corner quickly and purposefully onto a wider street, under a hanging Union Jack and cross the road so their march is lined by a long classical building. Steve’s costume gains several looks, even under the jacket.

Right as they begin to descend several stairs, Steve asks from behind, “We’re not far from where exactly?”

“Churchill’s War Rooms, Rodgers. Do keep up.” Philips informs him brusquely, and Steve falters a step in shock as the Colonel immediately turns at the base of the stairs and knocks, rapid fire, on an unassuming door in the brickwork. 

He blinks, dumbfounded, as it opens outward to reveal an British MP. Now that he looks, there’s armed guards across and down the street, at attention but clearly aimed towards the now open passage. Philips flashes him his credentials immediately. “They’re expecting us. They’re with me; both of them. Agent Margaret Carter and….Captain Steven Rodgers, SSR.” He turns back to Steve as he waves Carter in first, and almost seems to grin. “Be mighty glad the Bulldog is busy in Tehran, Rodgers, he’s a tough man to please. Even for the man of the hour. Get in.”

  
. . .

  
“Anything else you wish to add to your account, Rodgers?”

“No sir. I believe I’ve answered everything as accurately as I can. The bases I saw on the map - I don’t know if you need me to…”

“We have the general locations, we’ll have you lay them on a map in due course. And all the equipment you recovered has been handed over?” The British official asks him from the end of the table.

“Yes Sir.”

“Everything Captain Rodgers had on his person was handed over to Allied SSR personnel at 11:05 hours, I have the paperwork to verify that here.” Peggy pipes up, and slides documentation across the table. “All other recovered items from the mission---”

(That’s what they’re classing it as, to the press and otherwise. _Officially_ the rescue of Krausberg was approved and sanctioned by Allied collaboration and not a half-baked adventure by his truly.)

“---not able to be securely transported was seized at the Paularo unit base. We’re still waiting for a final breakdown to be telegrammed over but we have it under authority that an enhanced tank, grenades and several altered firearms have been recovered.”

The third man from the right, whose directly under Churchill apparently, harrumphs. “Good. In that case I can confirm the interview of Captain Steven Grant Rodgers on the matter of Operation Shield is concluded. The time is 23:16 on the sixteenth of November 1943.” The man stands and sharply straightens his paperwork with a tap tap; everyone follows suit to stand. “Very good men. Rodgers; we’ll be in touch.” He strides out, then turns at the door. “And Rodgers?” 

“Yes sir?”

“Good work, son.”

  
He leaves out another exit than he arrived at, out onto a new street he doesn’t recognize from the journey here. Peggy Carter leads him out the maze of underground corridors once he’s been searched on exit as he had on entry.

They’re awfully close to being in complete darkness, the entire city in blackout. As he blinks and his eyes adjust he can just about see the faint moonlight reflecting off the windows onto the cobbled pavement and can spy the sides of barrage balloons hidden in the clouds. Around the corner of two streets a black car pulls up with it’s lights dimmed, and Peggy bids him goodbye and goodnight. 

“You’re not--”

“Not yet. I have a few things to--well, you understand.”

He nods, “Of course.”

“You’ve been lodged into a small hotel for the night until other accommodation can be found. The driver will take you there directly. Another car will be sent tomorrow, likely in the morning. Get some sleep, Steve.”

“I will, ma’m.”

When he arrives at the small hotel, family owned, he’s lead down a narrow corridor and up two flights of stairs by candle light. He’s exhausted and desperately needs a wash. Stripping out of his jacket and costume, he wipes the dirt off his face and hands, and finally is able to relieve himself following the ten and a half hour underground interview. A pair of slacks and several shirts have been left folded on a chair for him and he’s infinitely relieved to escape from his sweaty USO costume tomorrow. The room’s slightly musty, and someone’s opened the window a crack to air it out behind the closed curtains. He slides it fully shut out of habit to avoid catching a chill; looking out onto the back and side of the building. There’s candle light still on in the window across from him, and Bucky’s sat on the sill with a glass of water; watching him.

Steve catches his eyes and mouths, “go to bed.”

Bucky nods across the space and disappears. The light of the candle blows out.

. . .

  
In the morning before he leaves he knocks on the room he thinks is Bucky’s. Listening with his ear to the door, there’s silence on the other end. Eventually he hears shifting as Bucky must turn over in bed, but nothing further. He leaves Bucky to sleep and is returned to the War Rooms for another day of invasive interviews and rigorous reports. The best part of his day is when they settle him in front of a typewriter for several hours before he finishes, so he has some semblance of quiet.

He glimpses Philips briefly throughout the day but he doesn’t see Peggy at all. At the end of the underground day under sun lamps he isn’t returned to the hotel; instead he’s taken far from the city to a base somewhere in Surrey. Immediately he recognizes several of the men that were on the first plane with he and Bucky, and several who weren’t. They all must have been flown out of Italy, he thinks, almost certain when he spies a bowler hat in the distance. He’s given private officers quarters, and there’s a full dress uniform with a Captain’s rank already pinned to the lapel in his size.

No more pretending; he’s a real solider now. 

  
. . . 

  
DATE RECIEVED: 21ST NOVEMBER 1943

* * *

**WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT **

**V--MAIL SERVICE**

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

[CENSOR STAMP -** REDACTED]**

TO: REBECCA BARNES FROM: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS  
3421 45 HILLREST ST. NEW JERSEY SENDERS ADDRESS:  
** [REDACTED]**  
DATE: 16TH NOVEMBER 1943

* * *

_Becca,_

_There’s a lot to explain, and a lot I haven’t told you when we’ve been writing. But it’s important. If it hasn’t already reached you or them then <strike>I need you to</strike> You need to go to your ma’s house and don’t start with me here about it. Go to your ma’s. There’s a telegraph going to come saying Buck’s missing or killed in action. Calm down, it’s wrong. _

_I have him. He’s with me. He’s--he’s not okay but he’s in one piece. He’s going to write you too-- but-- the letter was already sent out. You need to tell them that it’s wrong._

_I’ll send you another letter in the Postal not the V - I’ll try to explain as much as I can. I don’t know how much will go through censorship or--I’ll get someone to come by if it doesn’t work._

_If you need to write back send it to me at Tweedsmuir Camp, Surrey, Great Britain._

_Talk soon._

_Go to your ma’s Becca, I mean it._

_Steve_

* * *

. . .

  
In the evenings he speaks to Bucky and the other men who have arrived from Italy for a duty break; his friend quiet and dishevelled while the others are boisterous, but he seems to be more himself the more days that pass. In the daytimes, he speaks to more officers, more politicians, and Howard Stark (who’s also appeared with a plane full of Hydra equipment) - the Captain’s rank weighting heavy on his shoulders. He’s told he’s been nominated for a medal of valour, and while he’s proud, it’s another stage ceremony he could do without.

Peggy’s gone for a week and a half with no word before she reappears with tired eyes, bruises on her arms and more intel. By the end of that first week, he starts hearing rumours he’s going to be given a team - Hydra their target.

  
. . .

  
Peggy comes to him one evening, slipping in to take a seat across from him in the mess. Steve’s spooning beans and potatoes into his mouth with one hand and looking over personnel files with the other.

“I see you’ve heard a rumour.” She says as greeting.

He glances at her with a smile. “A convenient copy of a correspondence between Philips and General Mackenzie found it’s way under my pillow.”

She hums, feigning innocence, humming as she sips her water. 

_You’d be surprised how much power you can have if you make the right request,_ she’d said the last time they’d seen each other.

_“What do you mean?” He’d asked._

_“Play the political game,” She'd answered, “I’m sure you already know how with Senator Brandt. Subtlety is key.” She’d then said, disappearing behind a filing cabinet._

  
Peggy begins tearing apart a bread roll with her fingers, scattering crumbs all over the table before beginning to chew; uncommon for her usually so controlled nature. “Ask about Dernier first - he’s foreign but both our countries are very fond of their Resistance fighters. Stress the explosive expertise. Corporal Morita, you know, was already part of a special covert audio deception unit. Did you---know, I mean?”

Steve nods.

“Good. And of course I’d imagine you’ll ask for Jones. I’ve rarely seen someone so gifted with languages and ciphers and I should know, I studied them in Bletchley before Enigma was developed. Approach his suggest carefully though, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why.”

Steve frowns, unhappy about it, but has to agree. He has a feeling that’s where the most resistance will come in. “I understand. And Falsworth, I want him too.” He adds, who’s a _thinker_, albeit one whose prone to peppering his everyday speech with abstruse quotations - a flotsam of his university years. And that’s not forgetting his extensive airborne experience. “I have a soft spots for Brits, I guess.” He then dares to say, and smiles quickly at the warm, pleased look she gives him back.

“His university’s patronage is considered rather liberal, actually, if your interested.”

“Yeah.” Steve says to her mused comment, glad his attempt at flirting was taken well. “We talked about socialism a little.” Peggy knows he’s a liberal from the fight he got staff duty for in Basic when Hodge made a very poorly timed comment regarding civil rights.

“Hm.” Peggy considers, concealing a smile and probably remembering the long agonizing night he had to spend following Lt. Fisher around. “Who else?”

“Well, Bucky of course, and Dugan. He saw a lot in Africa, knows a thing or two, and he’s been serving for years before.”

Peggy stands, her bread roll finished. “It seems like you don’t need my help after all, Captain. Enjoy your meal.”

  
. . .

  
“And I want the unit to be, well, _you,_” Steve says, “and Dugan, Gabe, Morita, Falsworth and Dernier. Us seven. And Peggy and Howard would be involved, but it’d be us on the ground.”

Bucky, slumped against the back wall of a booth in a shady pub a mile from the base in Surrey with a double whisky in his hands, raises an eyebrow.

Continuing straight on, almost defensively Steve adds. “I’m not doing it if I can’t pick my team.”

“They won’t say yes. Not all of them at least and not Philips. Dugan and Jones maybe. Okay, Dugan probably, he can’t help himself at the best of times but…”

“I’ve been talking to them--”

“They might not all say yes. They don’t want to go back. ” Bucky argues again, even knowing as he does that they’ll probably all be sent back anyway.

“That’s okay.” Steve replies mildly. “But I think they might. They’re a good group of guys. Besides they might be more persuadable with a couple of pints down them. And leave Philips to me.”

. . .

  
“What about you?” Steve asks after a while, chewing the side of his cheek straight afterwards. “And I understand if you don’t want to come. I do…You can say no. But, what are you thinking?”

Bucky doesn’t answer him, and Steve backtracks.

“You don’t have to decide right now.” He adds quickly.

“Maybe.” Bucky says after pausing long enough to make Steve sweat, and leaves to relieve himself round back.

  
. . .

  
“This one was here in Poland. Near the Baltic…and the sixth one was….about…” he leans forward with his pencil closer to the map, “here. Thirty or forty miles west of the Marginal Line. I just got a quick look.” He adds as the aide takes the map away.

Peggy, who’s leaning against the table quips, “Well nobody’s perfect.”

As they turn together Howard appears from behind them under an arch. “Hey, hang on. Aren’t you supposed to be picking up a medal right now?”

“I’ve decided,” He replies, looking at Peggy who sends him a small amused smile. “I’m officially off the press circuit.”

“Rodgers.” Philips now calls, joining the group. “You just embarrassed a United States Senator in front of a room full of reporters and ten members of Parliament.”

_Shame_, Steve thinks unrepentantly.

Then Philips laughs, “You deserve a medal just for that.” He says, then hands him a notebook. Steve smiles back, finally feeling like he’s getting somewhere with the man. The Colonel turns to Stark whose turning a rectangular device glowing with blue light in his fingers. It’s not one of his inventions. “You figure out what that is yet?”

“Well if you believe Rodgers it’s the most powerful explosive known to man.”

_It is._

“If?” Steve shoots back almost sharply at the supposed sarcasm.

Howard looks a little startled that he’s been called on it, but looks at him seriously. 

“Well either you’re wrong,_ or Schmidt’s rewritten the laws of Physics_.”

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: 25TH NOVEMBER 1943

* * *

**WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT**   
**V--MAIL SERVICE**

  
(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

  
[CENSOR STAMP -** CLEARED] **

TO: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS FROM: JOSAPHINE RICHARDS  
TWEEDSMUIR MILITARY SENDERS ADDRESS:  
CAMP, SURREY 85 HALLIWELL ST. SAN FRANSICO   
DATE: 19TH NOVEMBER 1944

* * *

_Steve Rodgers,_

_You complete and utter turd! Do you have any idea how worried the girls and I have been? We thought you were dead!_

_But apparently not - you’re alive and a great big hero. Brandt says you’re not coming back and the tours cancelled. We’ve already left Europe and are on our way back in the States, we were gone from camp one day after you took off into the wind. On another show now. The usual propaganda dances._

_Heard you were London. Have you got your wish? Are you part of the war now? It was so fucking stupid Steve! Urgh! I am so angry at you._

_You better write me back you reckless shithead or I’ll come back over there and thwack you into next week. I hate you so much for scaring me._

_Josie Richards_

* * *

  
. . .

The markings on his map have been added to the one in the centre of the bunker in wooden factory sculptures and flags. The expectation is clear. Steve begins.

. . .

_“These are the weapons factories we know about. Sergeant Barnes said that Hydra shipped all the parts to another facility that isn’t on this map.”_

_“Agent Carter, coordinate with MI5. I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main Hydra base.”_

_“What about us?”_

_“We are going to set a fire under Johann Schmidt’s ass. What do you say Rodgers, you drew a map, do you think you can wipe Hydra off it?”_

_“Yes sir.” Steve replies immediately. “I’ll need a team.”_

_“We’re already putting together the best men.”_

_“With all due respect sir, so am I.”_

. . .

  
“Half of these men aren’t in the US Army, Rodgers.”

“Last time I checked the SSR was an Allied organization, not an American one.” Steve rebuffs automatically.

“One of them’s Black.”

“Yes sir.”

“You are aware there are segregation laws in effect?”

“I am sir, but with all due respect---”

“---Why do I feel like I’m going to be hearing that every day for the foreseeable future?” Philips mutters.

“---we’re fighting against an enemy using technology that is quite literally out of this world. And Hitler on another front, in charge of a government who’s committing war crimes against the Jewish race. In all honesty, with what it takes to win this fight it shouldn’t matter what colour skin I have fighting beside me. Gabe Jones is skilled, speaks three languages fluently and was one of the few who stood out. I trust him. I don’t want anyone else.”

There’s a silence, then Peggy says.

“A black man standing side by side with Captain America,” she muses, “That might rub our German friends up the wrong way, don’t you think?” Philips turns to stare at her, as she casually comments. “Just an observation.”

“I’ll push it through, god help me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I better not get demoted for this, Rodgers.”

“You won’t regret it.”

. . . 

Bucky’s eyes slowly begin to loose the bruised look of sleep deprivation, though they stay shadowed under the floppy fringe of hair that still makes Steve blink twice to see - so used to Bucky with Brylcream; Bucky with a satin sheen to him and Bucky with a sharp collar and polished shoes. He’s not used to Bucky with scruff and eyes that still seem sunk too deep, cheekbones that stand out, and a quietness that is untoward for him. It makes him want to throw Bucky into bed until he sleeps, or hug him until he calls Steve a ‘big soggy lump’ and starts making fun of him again. There’s been happy and sweet moments, but there’s also been moments when Bucky hasn’t laughed at inside jokes that would have had him on the floor before.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: 29TH NOVEMBER 1943

* * *

**WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT**  
**V--MAIL SERVICE**  
(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

  
[CENSOR STAMP - **[CLEARED] **

****TO: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS FROM: REBECCA BARNES  
TWEEDSMUIR MILITARY SENDERS ADDRESS:  
CAMP, SURREY 3421 45 HILLREST ST.  
NEW JERSEY  
DATE:   
21TH NOVEMBER 1943

* * *

  
_Rodgers,_

_Everything was blacked out in the post, what the fuck is going on?_

_ It didn’t explain a shittin’ thing. I talked to them. I got there a hour after the messenger boy came with the telegram. The neighbours were round. The girls are calm now, but quiet._

_What the fuck is going on?_

_Becca_

* * *

  
. . .

  
_“What about you, you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”_

_“Hell, no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight, I’m following him.”_

  
. . .

DATE RECIEVED: 8TH OF DECEMBER 1943

* * *

**WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT**  
**V--MAIL SERVICE**  
(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

  
[CENSOR STAMP - **[REDACTED] **

TO: REBECCA BARNES FROM: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS  
3421 45 HILLREST ST. SENDERS ADDRESS:  
NEW JERSEY 189TH COM-NDO. F.A.B.N  
P,O 459. LONDON  
DATE:   
29TH NOVEMBER 1943

* * *

  
_Becca,_

_Okay, I’ll try and send someone from the _**[BLACK BLACK]** _to come talk to you. I’m working on getting it cleared, might be able to pull in a favour._

_We’re in London, we’re building a team. I can’t tell you for what, it’s complicated._

_If you want to write send it to this P.O box in London. It’ll go into a locker for us to pick up whenever we touch down in London, or will be forwarded to us. Buck’s is the same. We’re going to _ **[BLACK BLACK BLACK]** _ for training._

_Steve_

* * *

  
. . .

…Lorraine kisses him between the shelves, Peggy fires three bullets at him. He gets a new shield.

  
. . .

  
The day before they leave for Achnacarry for short, but intense commando training, he’s pulled away from putting the satisfying final touches to his last report.

Steve follows the aide across the camp and deep into the office bunkers. He’s led to a familiar room, and the aide waves him in and closes the door firmly behind him. Peggy and Colonel Philips are the only ones in the room, which is a change; the Colonel looking perpetually grim-faced. Peggy’s stood to the side, face studiously blank.

“Colonel. Agent Carter.” Steve greets politely, saluting. He wonders what this is about. Philips’ eyes twitch, but otherwise stay almost stone-like as he lets the moment stretch too long and Peggy glances at him before telling Steve to sit in the lone chair facing the Colonel.

Philips still says nothing, just stares at him in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of Camp Leigh. Steve tries not to shift, “Am I here to give another report, sir?”

Peggy is the one who replies, and even she seems grimmer than usual. Philips remains ever still, right eye twitching. She starts, “Of a type. Captain Rodger---”

Philips cuts her off as though he can’t contain himself any longer. “When, if ever, did you plan to mention that Sergeant Barnes came from Hydra’s Isolation Lab!? Or were you planning on keeping that _particular information_ to yourself forever?”

_Oh._

With a start, any words Steve had ready are silenced.

How does he even answer that?

_I was going to tell you,_ even though he’s not entirely sure he would have.

_I didn’t think it was important,_ even though he absolutely knows it is.

_I was worried you wouldn’t clear him for the commandos, and I need him with me and in my sight if I’m going to do this. I can’t have him back on the front line alone._

_I was trying to protect him._

Instead, what comes out is: “H..How?”

Philips harrumphs, angrily and bitterly. “So it is true then.”

Steve blinks again, a dumbfounded look on his face as he realizes he’s just confirmed what was only a suspicion. Philips is furious. Peggy, the more he looks at her, is somewhere in-between that and disappointment.

“A camp doctor on duty the morning you returned to camp reported he examined Sergeant Barnes and noticed puncture marks, the level of which he’s only seen in severe opium addicts, and several signs of collapsed veins. And while none of the men you recovered could have been considered sanitary, the doctor makes a point of expressing Barnes’ standard. Something which didn’t escape my notice as well.” Peggy explains flatly, “That report was followed by a Private reporting to his surviving Sergeant that another Sergeant on the march back helped_ lift part of a turned-over truck_ off him during a firefight. When questioned further, he identified Sergeant Barnes.”

_Fuck._

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck._

Peggy looks down at the notes in her hands. “Major Falsworth, your new Tactical Airborne Expert, when questioned this morning admitted to me, likely without realizing the significance, that you deliberately headed to the Isolation ward in the factory, and when you returned you had Barnes with you. Confrontation with the Red Skull not withstanding.”

_Fuck._

“How long was he in that isolation lab?” She demands as Steve tries to heave in a calming breath.

“I don’t know exactly.”

Philips snaps, “Don’t lie to us, boy.”

“I’m not.” Steve says, even though he is. “I’m not sure how long….he wasn’t with the others in the cages when I released them, and when they mentioned there was an Isolation Ward I….I went out on a limb. I didn’t think I would find him at all at that point, but--”

“But you did.” Peggy says.

Steve nods, closing his eyes for a moment. He can’t keep lying, not when they’ve thoroughly caught him out. “He was strapped to a table - that’s why the doctor got away - I heard Bucky mumbling his name and serial number - so I went that way instead.”

“Tortured?”

“Yes….I think so, sir.”

“Drugged?”

Steve frowns, then has to admit. “That too. I don’t know with what exactly, but it took him a few moments to recognize me. He was in and out of it for the first day or two of the march back.”

“You should have reported it. In your very first interview.” Peggy bites out, “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”

“No. I just…I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.” He apologizes, looking them both in the eye.

Peggy looks back down at the reports, head shaking. “Unfortunately the camp doctor didn’t do a thorough or even close to a full examination - that will need to be corrected. Blood taken too.”

“Agent Carter--” Steve tries to protest.

She slams a picture down on the table instead of letting him speak. It’s a surveillance photograph dated late 1941. “This the doctor you saw with Schmidt?”

Steve’s eyes catch on the pictures. The face, the glasses, the receding hairline.

“That’s _him_.”

“Armin Zola.” Peggy informs him, looking at him dead on now. The disgust must have bled through the shock in his voice. “He has PHDs in Engineering and Bio-chemistry. He became Schimitt’s go to scientist in technology and bio-enhancement after Erkstine’s removal.”

“I’m sure your smart enough to know what that means, Rodgers. If you think Johann-_goddamn_-Schmitt will have stopped his crusade to create another Nazi-super-mutant you’ve got another thing coming.” Philips snaps. “If he experimented on Barnes--”

“I understand sir. I do.” Steve tries to stop the spiral before it starts. “And as I said, I’m sorry.”

“Apologies don’t do jack in war. You know what does? Protocol. Information. _Honesty._” Philips lists, “That’s the last time you ever lie to this administration, do you understand me?!”

“Yes sir.” He replies again, conceding and contrite. “I’ll go get--”

“Barnes is already on route, we don’t ass about here. I want blood and a full physical done in an hour.” Philips orders sharply, standing. “Then get him into interrogation. We need to know what he told them.”

Steve bristles at that almost immediately, “He didn’t tell him anything!”

“Thought you didn’t know anything?” Philips retorts without a beat.

“I know he didn’t talk. _He wouldn’t have._”

“Every man breaks eventually Rodgers. Every man. Best you learn that quickly.” Philips pushes himself into Steve’s space. “You are goddamn lucky you’re untouchable right now Captain, anyone else and I would have buried them so deep in military prison they’d be lucky to ever be heard of again, without a second thought. You best remember that.”

Without another word he storks off, slamming the door behind him. Peggy follows his cue.

“Peg--Agent Cart--”

“Don’t Steve. You were in the wrong, and _you full well know it_.”

The door clicks firmly behind her, and he stares at the corner of the oak table, pushing the breath out of his lungs slowly to calm himself. She’s left the photograph on the table,_ purposely_ he knows, and he picks it up and tucks it into a pocket; the name forever etched in his head. Bucky didn’t know, or wouldn’t tell him the man’s name.

He heaves another breath and leaves to try and intercept his friend.

Just as things were starting to look up.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up, as mentioned in a previous chapter with the telegram there will now be V-Mail transcripts (Army letters) peppered in throughout the story. They will continue in this format except for the maybe occasional heavily censored one to show the blacked out censors. I may also try to throw some fanart in occasionally if I have the time between work and my writers block.
> 
> Things are moving quickly for Steve, but it looks like he's been caught in a lie! Yikes! And things were seemingly all working out for him, and was on his way to learn how to do all the things Basic never taught him and get to know the team so they don't bomb their way through their first mission. Hope you enjoyed this little filler chapter setting up the coming events; and thanks so much everyone for getting this over a 1000 hits, and for the reviews on the last two chapters!
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> V-MAIL: V-mail, short for Victory Mail, was a hybrid mail process used by the United States during the Second World War as the primary and secure method to correspond with soldiers stationed abroad. To reduce the cost of transferring an original letter through the military postal system, a V-mail letter would be censored, copied to micro-film, and printed back to smaller paper upon arrival at its destination. The V-mail process is based on the earlier British Air graph process, and allowed the Army to carry twice the amount with five times less weight, and if a plane happened to be shot down - they had copies to send again.
> 
> A V-MAIL LETTER LOOKED LIKE THIS IF YOU WANT TO SEE: https://notsofancynancy.files.wordpress.com/2012/12/1944-v-mail5.jpg
> 
> CHURCHILL'S WAR ROOMS : Construction of the Cabinet War Rooms, located beneath the Treasury building in the Whitehall area of Westminster, began in 1938. They became fully operational on 27 August 1939, a week before Britain declared war on Germany. The War Rooms remained in operation throughout the Second World War, before being abandoned in August 1945 after the surrender of Japan. This was wear all of the command scenes were based in the film, and this is a photo of the real entrance as it would have looked closer to the time period; and how inconspicuous it was. Now there's a big huge modern entrance shoved on the front for tourism. LINK: https://theexhibitionlist.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/churchill-museum-cabinet-war-room.jpeg
> 
> FUN FACTS ABOUT THE CABINET WAR ROOMS: They had slotted boards that gave news of the weather to those working underground. During air raids as the indicator was changed to 'windy' as a joke. Despite a reinforced concrete slab up to three metres thick installed above the rooms in December 1940, a hit from anything larger than a 500-pound (227-kg) bomb could have penetrated the building and destroyed the War Rooms. Secrecy was the best security for the site. LINK: https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205094719
> 
> BRYLCREAM : A hair product created in the 1930s, it was particularly known to be used by pilots during WW2, who had the reputation of being: being cutting edge and sophisticated, to keep their longer hair perfectly in place during intense air battles. It's advertising jingle was: "Brylcreem—A Little Dab'll Do Ya! Brylcreem—You'll look so debonair. Brylcreem—The gals'll all pursue ya; they'll love to run their fingers through your hair!" [I don't know why I'm telling you this other than I found it quite funny.]


	18. PART 12 (a.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherever he goes Steve leaves a part of himself behind for someone to find. It used to be nosebleeds, cinema stubs from his pockets, his patience, his fury, a shoe, pride after returning a girl’s stolen lunch money or an old lady’s missing cat. His dignity, once or twice. Normally, he used to always leave Bucky one of his smiles.

BUCKY

  
_“I don’t know.”_

_“No. I don’t remember.”_

_“They spoke German the entire time, so I don’t know.”_

_“No.”_

_“I never heard the name Erkstine until Steve told me.”_

_“I remember needles, but not what was in them.”_

_“I don’t know how long I was there for.”_

_“Yes sometimes.”_

_“They asked about formations….once, maybe twice. Most of the time they didn’t speak to me. Just each other.”_

_“I--I told them about a formation in Prevalle but that was weeks old by the time I was captured. But they didn’t know that.”_

_“No sir. Nothing else.”_

_“No. No. I don’t know.”_

_“I don’t remember.”_

“I don’t know.” Bucky repeats for the hundredth time. “Like I said, they spoke in German the whole time.”

“Really? No English? Not even once?”

Bucky barely restraints a sign of anxious frustration. He’s sweating, and his hands are trembling under the table. He doesn’t dare lift them to take a drink from the glass of water in front of him out of fear of Philips or Carter seeing; no matter how parched he is.

“No. Not that I---”

“---Can remember? Right.” Philips cuts him off to comment. “You don’t seem to remember an awful lot Sergeant.”

“We can dose you up with four different chemicals and throw some morphine on top and see how much you remember, Colonel, if that’ll give you a little perspective!” Bucky finally snaps back, eyes flashing; not even caring at how much trouble it will get him in. A brief, striking thought hits him - if he gets himself dishonorably discharged he can go home and escape this hell hole, but then that would leave Steve alone with the whole Axis army out gunning for him. _Not an option._

Philips merely raises an eyebrow at him. His training officer in Wisconsin would have been screaming and spitting in his face in under a second if it had been him. His interest is clearly piqued though - that comment having more life in it than any of the flat dead-toned answers he’s given so far.

He wants to leave,_ desperately._

He wants to go back to packing his bag of new kit for Achnacarry, desperately, and to have not been marched away with nary a word as to why. Agent Carter had been waiting for him outside alone, perhaps as an attempt to put him at ease. Any state of ease he has left in him at this point immediately dropped out with the rest of his stomach in the sparse thirty seconds Steve had to warn him.

He wasn’t frog-marched by MP’s into the new medical ward, but at the sight of it and a doctor with a stethoscope around his neck he might as well have been. Breath hisses in through his nose before he can stop. His steps falter and start to back up, stumbling.

There’s a nurse on the other side of the room. She has a needle and a syringe in her hands. Peggy Carter steps in front of him before he can get two steps into his immediate retreat. 

“We need to take some blood---”

“No.”

She blinks, but otherwise doesn’t change her demeanor. “Sergeant---”

“_No_.” He snaps out vehemently, backs up further and swings out an arm towards the approaching nurse and needle. “Don’t you dare come near me with that! Miss.” His last minute remembrance of his manners doesn’t stop the nurse from jerking back at his arm and tone. Peggy Carter’s countenance doesn’t flicker, even if he is almost looming over her. He’s more panicked than angry, but in many ways that can be more dangerous when it comes violence. She’s not intimidated, but she does soften.

“We know you were in the lab in Krausberg." She says, attempting to be reassuring. "We know you were drugged. We need to know with what. You’re an intelligent officer Sergeant, with a glowing report, I know you understand the protocol. Especially in this scenario if Captain Rodgers has told you everything I believe he has. We need three, maybe four vials of blood, and a full examination as you’ve yet to have one. That’s it.”

Bucky laughs disbelievingly, still shaking his head. “That’s it?”

He doesn’t care if he’s an intelligent officer with a glowing report, he doesn't care if he understands the why, because he does - he’s not becoming a lab rat ever ever again. 

Carter nods, “And a second interview and debrief.”

“Interrogation, you mean?”

Carter doesn’t really deny that when she says, “We tend not to interrogate our own men.”

“Come on old sport.” The doctor says from behind Carter. “You’ve been fired at by a hundred rounds a minute no doubt, one little jab isn’t the end of the world.”

It is for him. They don’t understand.

“No.”

“Now solider---”

“_I said no!”_

In the end, he knows he doesn’t have a choice. It’s not something that’s changed since he escaped Austria - it probably won’t ever change. He doesn’t have a choice in this, he doesn’t have a choice about leaving this war and going home - not while Steve’s here, he doesn’t have any real choices left. None that matter. He’ll always be trapped, even if he doesn't know what he wants - here or home, home or here.

His conviction sticks on one account - he refuses to lie or sit on the bed utterly and completely, so they take blood and examine him standing in the middle of the room while he watches the exit. They take two vials, but struggle to find a viable vein for the rest. He has to strip to his skivvies so they can examine him fully, and they don’t find much of consequence. It’s been nearly two weeks since the march. The gutting slice down his middle that was half way to healing when Steve broke him out has since he dug the staples out - and the scabby pinkish scar is obscured by new dark body hair and the fact his ribs are just visible and his stomach is still sunken in a little. It looks several months old, which is acceptable for the amount of time he was in Zola’s possession if it occurred at the beginning of his tenure there. He gets away with it. The burns have taken a little longer to heal, small as they are, and are harder to hide while bare from hair; as are his elbows and inner thighs which are still dark and rather sore; even more so now.

He has proper bruises to distract them too, bruises he frantically gave himself with his own fists and the corner of the metal sink in the adjoining bathroom in the fifteen minutes they gave him to strip and prepare himself. They were uncommonly generous in that, and he has a feeling that's entirely down to Agent Carter, who he heard tell the doctor to give him another minute through the door. He surprises himself with his own strength, and with how quickly he's able to injure himself without hesitating.

He’s never been hit or thrown from a truck before, but he supposes a man would still be bruised; and so suddenly he is again when he leaves the bathroom, two weeks later. The bruises had already started to set in when he looked at himself one last time in the mirror. They’d taken photographs to document his body too, at every angle and at every distance. Strangely, he’d felt more vulnerable then than when they slid the needles into him.

  
It had been uncommonly chilly in the ward, as it always is, and is worse in this basement building even though he’s now clothed. But he’d started sweating the very moment he’d seen the doctor and hasn’t stopped since; any shivers running through his body aren’t from the cold. With every question Zola’s contagion zones on the heels of his feet, his elbows, his arms, his neck, his forehead, his soft squishy inner organs, his outer thighs and his inner thighs all tingle with unwelcome feeling. With every breath of silence he swallows vomit back down his throat.

“Fair point.” Phillips finally harrumphs. “When he wasn’t dosing you with four different chemicals and morphine on top, what did he do? Where were you?”

“In a cell.” Bucky bites out. “Anytime I wasn’t on the table I was in a cell. I don’t know what he did.”

Carter asks, “Were you alone?”

“In the cell?” He clarifies, swallowing. She nods. “No. Not at the start anyway.”

Philips goes down another avenue before Agent Carter can finish that one. “Did you see any machines; technology that wasn’t missile or weapons based? Probably seemed like to be ‘new-aged’. I’m talking space, science-fiction vibes.”

“Everything of Hydra’s technology has ‘new-aged space vibes’." He counters unhelpfully.

Philips looks at Carter and nods, so she slides a photograph of a free-standing metal cylinder with a small square window on the front of it in front of him. 

“Anything like this?”

It’s the machine they put Steve in, the_ Vita Chamber_ he thinks his friend called it. He knows it it, somehow, deep in his bones. It looks like it encloses completely around the person, head to toe, like a claustrophobia heated coffin. It looks infinitely worse than the ‘iron lung’. He feels sick for Steve as well as himself now.

“No. I never saw anything like that.” He lies.

  
. . .

  
He vomits spectacularly by the dumpsters behind the canteen when he finally leaves, speed-walking past Steve’s blind-spot where he’s sat on a crate by the door, obviously waiting for him. He starts sprinting the second he’s out of eye-shot, dodging people and corners until he can crouch, head between his knees, and empty his stomach in privacy. There’s a rat by his foot and several more scratching from inside the dumpster at his back, so he’s not completely alone, but he finds he doesn’t mind them.

Just people. People who can ask questions and walk towards him armed with needles and cameras to photograph his shame.

He heaves in the sharp panicked breaths he’s been holding back since the bathroom and feels the tears even if they don’t fall. He’s almost silent as he lets himself come apart, staring at the rat sniffing the sludge by his shoe.

The right pocket of his jacket is heavier than usual, as is his right.

He crouches there for thirty minutes; long enough for the cooks to put a Shepherds pie in the oven and for him to hear them yell about taking it out later through the half-open back door. He barely stops himself from sinking onto his backside or knees, and it’s only the thought of the dumpster sludge on his new uniform and the fact he’ll be on transport to Achnacarry in under an hour that stops him.

The plan and coming Hydra crusade is still on his future slate for the moment, and they’ll revisit the issue when his results have come in and been reviewed. He’s still Steve’s glorified sidekick, for now anyway. He lets it all out through the trembles in his hands instead of screaming out like he wants to. He backs further into the wall when someone passes by, then stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand a few minutes later.

When he walks back past the building he practically ran from Steve is gone from the crate, but Bucky can almost imagine the imprint he’s left behind. Wherever he goes Steve leaves a part of himself behind for someone to find. It used to be nosebleeds, cinema stubs from his pockets, his patience, his fury, a shoe, pride after returning a girl’s stolen lunch money or an old lady’s missing cat. His dignity, once or twice. Normally, he used to always leave Bucky one of his smiles.

The only physical imprint that he was sat on the crate waiting for Bucky to return like a loved one returning on a steaming train platform is a shallow footprint from where his boots sat in the frozen mud. His half packed kit bag is gone from his cot when he returns, as are the rest of his things. There’s a note sat on the neatly-made bed in Steve’s handwriting.

It says:

_Peggy told me you finished and are still coming with us to Achnacarry. Thank god. I was waiting for you outside, but you must not have seen me, and I couldn’t find you after. The transport leaves from the gate at 16:00._

_I have your stuff._

_Let me know your okay, Buck._

  
_I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again,_ Bucky thinks as he folds the note up. He checks his second-hand watch and steals three mints from where he knows one of his week’s roommates keeps his tin. He thoroughly washes out his mouth, and looks at his grey-washed face and dishevelled uniform. He jogs to the gate to catch their transport out of Surrey.

Steve’s checking his watch worriedly by the bonnet of the bus. 

“About bloody time!” Dugan yells from inside when he spots him. “Thought you were never going to turn up!”

“Say, I wanna’ know your secret though, Barnes, to get the Captain to do your grunt work.” Morita also calls from out the window, “I could do with having my kit carried around for me too!”

Steve watches his arrival with sharp eyes, but turns slightly to call back. “Call it fourteen years of friendship and the knowledge that he’s always late and leave it at that. You’ve got a lot to work up to!”

“Hey! I can be late!” Morita counters to Jones’ laughter. 

Steve, fingers just short of touching him, asks, “Are you okay?”

Bucky tries to smile at him. “Let’s just get out of here, okay?”

. . .

In his first debrief, before they knew about Zola and the lab and the _experiments_, they asked about the weaponry they were building in Krausberg, and what he knew about that; they same as they did to every other solider who escaped from there. Because that’s what he was, just one of the nearly four-hundred men in a German work camp saved by Captain America. 

Occasionally during the debrief Bucky himself was called upon and in every case his mouth felt dry and his chest stuttered so early on, so much so than once somebody else had to swoop in to answer while Bucky sat there with his mouth hanging open like an idiot. He never answered “what time of night would they send you back to the cages?” or “what was the terrain like?” and most definitely didn’t answer “who seemed to be in charge?” The others answered a Colonel Kruger, and Bucky didn’t correct them, just sat there in silence, Zola’s name not even close to forming on his tongue.

In his second, and what he thought final debrief, he told them about the tentacled insignia, and the missiles and that the parts were shipped out to another facility that wasn’t on the map Steve saw, and nothing else. They thanked him for his bravery and he left.

They didn’t thank him this time.

. . .

  
Sixteen something hours in a truck later, with grateful stop off in Middlesborough on the way, he and the other ‘commandos’, as that’s what they’re now being hastily trained as, are being screamed at by a fellow called Lieutenant Jackson in the dark outside an old castle, lit by floodlights by the door. Lieutenant Colonel Charles Vaughan is stood five feet behind him in front of their line, observing them all. They were dropped off not at the castle, but at Spean Bridge railway station eight miles away and were told to march with all their equipment the rest of the way. Training and assessment started immediately on arrival apparently, even if they technically hadn’t arrived at Achnacarry yet. Once reaching the estate; with the sun down and tripping over their feet they were immediately hustled onto the grassy terrain out front where Lieutenant Colonel Vaughan was stood waiting, and weren’t allowed to unpack and get settled first. Both these men are British forces, highly trained.

Now this; this is something Bucky is used to having spent eight months of his life in army training already. It’s almost comforting. There’s ever so slightly less screaming in Steve’s direction, but in no way shape or form does Jackson hold back on account of his rank either. Considering these men have to shove twenty-one weeks of commando training into the span of three or four weeks, he highly doubts their going to pull any punches. So much for a duty break.

Jones, Steve, Falsworth (or ‘_Monty_’ as he’s been told to call him) are all stood strictly at attention, as are the others, though the aggravation is slightly more visible on the latter faces. He doesn’t want to know what he looks like considering he felt carsick for the last hour and a half of their journey and got light-headed on the fourth mile of their eight mile warm up. He still comes a close third, even if he was hunched over by the end, eyes squeezed closed. Dernier came last, very thin himself, while Dugan came to try pat him on the back and check on him after; made sure he stayed standing.

“Looking a little green there, Jimmy.” Was all he managed to say before Jackson started yelling again, Steve fell back into line and Bucky shot up straight into rest.

Comfort zone as it is, all Bucky wants to do is find a room with big windows, a lot of light, and a thick blanket he can curl himself up in as tight as he can. He doesn’t want to be doing this after the worst conversation of his life, whilst he’s paranoid about his still full pockets. He thought he’d have time.

"Physical fitness is a prerequisite." Lieutenant Jackson orders, looking side-long at those of them who are clearly still a little run down and unfit. "And so, any man who fails to live up to the requirements will be returned to their previous unit. It's the same for any recruit who comes here, and it's the same for you lot. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir!" They chorus.

"This training is not one you hold back on; to simulate real life scenarios exercises will be conducted using live ammunition and explosives. We'll conduct cross country runs and boxing matches to improve fitness; speed and endurance marches over the mountain ranges - zip lines, abseiling, climbing, garrotting - all while carrying arms and full equipment. You will be given these and uniforms for all weather conditions. Training night and day, even more so for you lot. Airborne training is also extensive. Correct military protocols are enforced, officers _will be saluted_, uniforms_ will be clean_; brasses and boots shining on parade. Is that also clear?"

"Yes sir!"

Jackson strides back to the middle of their formation, wrapping things up, finally. 

“Your things are in the entry room inside. This is the only time you’ll have rooms indoors and pre-cooked food, tomorrow you’ll be moved to the tents or huts. Go unpack, food at 20:00. Breakfast starts at 05:30, training at 07:00. Be glad for the late morning start, it’s the only one you’re likely to get. Now! Go!” Jackson yells and the men disperse - holding back any grumbles until their out of earshot.

“Sergeant Barnes.” Lieutenant Colonel Vaughan comments coolly as he goes to follow, summoning him to his side. He’s the first one of them he’s spoken to directly apart from Steve. Steve carries on walking, but ever so slightly slows, canting his head to listen.

“Yes sir?” Bucky answers with well-trained respect, falling into rest with his hands behind his back. 

“Tomorrow - your uniform will be buttoned and spotless. We’re training you to operate behind enemy lines in all conditions but don’t think for a second respect for he uniform or correct military protocol is of any less import. I want to be able to see myself in your boots and buttons, and no creases by the morning parade. This is the only chance to correct it I’m going to give you. Are we clear?”

“Understood sir. No creases.” Bucky replies, eyes ahead and letting himself breathe in relief. He can deal with a uniform infraction. A minute later, the Lieutenant Colonel's eyes on both their backs, Steve tries to sling Bucky’s pack over his shoulder too. Bucky shoves him off immediately but as subtly as he can, hissing out a sharp, “Stop!”

Steve, for his credit, covers it nicely. Also probably aware of the gaze, he must have belatedly realized Bucky mustn’t let himself be seen as weak in front of these men. The others are somewhere ahead, he can hear them if not see them in the fancy manor building. With dark wood covering the stone walls and slightly faded wallpaper, this is the swankiest training base he’s ever seen. It looks like it has big windows. He’s going to find the biggest.

“I heard they equipped it specially.” Steve comments at his side. “They gave us all private rooms for tonight - if you want to--”

“No.” Bucky can’t remember how many times he’s said that very same word over the last twenty four hours. Maybe for one, Steve will listen where the other’s wouldn’t now they’re away from prying eyes and tight quarters on a moving truck.

“Buck--”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Steve.” He replies, tone flat. “Thank you for trying to warn me, and not mentioning it before. That probably got you in trouble--”

“--Only a little.”

That meant ‘a lot’ in Steve terms.

“--But it’s done. They took blood, and asked hours and hours of questions. I answered. I’ve done enough talking - I just--I---can you---”

“--Can I leave you alone?” Steve butts in, strangely not looking hurt, but almost as if he was growing used to Bucky pushing him away. He shoves the thought far off - needing a few hours to himself isn’t selfishly pushing Steve away, he decides, determinedly not thinking about how many hours he’s taken to himself lately.

A member of the estate staff directs them to the rooms serving as the commandos for the night. He has his own room, third door on the right in the fourth corridor on the second floor. Steve has the fifth on the left. Bucky closes the door firmly behind him, and stays with his back to it as he takes the room and the windows in. It’s over-facing the side of the estate, overlooking a zip-line and fields and fields of Scottish countryside. He follows the lines of interconnecting hedges until he comes to the line of forest in the distance, and the Scottish Highlands even further. 

He’s looked at a line of trees before, wishing and dreaming.

It’s 19:35 in the evening, in late November - _or is it early December now?_ Dugan and Jones are talking over and to one another through their open doors as they unpack about a game of cards later. Steve says he’s in. Morita and Dernier too. Falsworth or _Monty_, makes a sound of affirmation.

“Good team bonding,” Dugan says, “Nothing like seeing how well someone cheats to get the lay of a fella’.”

Steve cheats something fierce - so they’ll get on.

Bucky doesn’t unpack. He leaves the safety of the barred door and the light on, opens the window to let the frosty air in, and makes sure the curtains are open as wide as possible for the sunrise. He pulls the pillows and the top blanket from the bed and tosses them in a pile on the floor. After taking his shoes off, he curls up on his side on top of them. The beds too soft anyway, nowadays he always feels like he’ll fall straight through.

  
. . .

  
In the morning he wolfs down two bowls of porridge, starving after he missed the evening meal the night before. He’s the first to breakfast, though he passed Falsworth in the corridor when he left his room - probably to go shower and wash.

Bucky did it before dawn so he could watch the sun break past the line of the forest through his window from his pile of blankets. He’s spick and span, as promised, no creases in sight. He looks like a mirror of his past self while he feels like a shadow; but he’s always been good at putting in a show. _You don’t knock out your opponent during the first round, you dodge and feign and give the crowd exactly what they want - and earn yourself and pa a few dollars on the side for the trouble._

Speak of devil, Falsworth drops down across from him, porridge doused with rationed honey, taking full advantage of the catering.

“You missed a good game last night.”

Bucky glances up, “Did I?” He feigns, just as he’s practiced. “I was so pooped I was out like a light the moment I got in.” He quirks a smile from the corner of his mouth. “Not used to eleven hour drives or running laps anymore, I guess. Who won?”

Falsworth laughs, sharp and sweet like his tooth. “Which game? We played Rummie and Queenie and Poker, two or three games at a time sometimes. Every time Dugan went to shuffle I thought for sure we’d never finish.”

“Yeah, he does that.” Bucky replies, grunting, remembering the pack missing three of the hearts Dugan kept in his mud splattered pocket. “He’ll go all night if he has the chance. Any of them?” He clarifies after.

“Capta--Rodgers did.” Falsworth corrects himself. “Rummie three times and Poker twice.”

Bucky snorts, “Of course he did, the fuckin’ cheat.”

Falsworth coughs around a gulp of coffee. He asks in bewilderment. “Why do -- you think he cheated?” 

Falsworth only knows Steve as the big hero who can lift twenty men without pulling a muscle;_ why would ‘Captain America’ need to cheat? _

He doesn’t know Steve as the skinny sonvubitch who’ll roll on his best friend in a club poker game just to get a win, just to prove the point that he could, even if it would get them kicked out and beaten up afterwards. He’s done it so often growing up the boy either can’t help it, or doesn’t even realize he’s doing it half the time since first getting away with it at fifteen. Even now Bucky can’t show his face in Joe Swash’s backroom Tuesday games on account of his association with the _‘crockiest, most cheating little shit he’s ever seen on the South side._’ It’s a miracle Steve hasn’t gotten himself shot with all the mobsters he’s cheated out of their coin over the years. The guy’s so ruthless it’s lucky he’s smart.

Bucky just raises an eyebrow. “He always cheats. Watch his left hand--” Bucky spills, not even caring he’s giving away one of Steve’s treasured tells. “--When he goes to scratch his leg. Or behind his ear.”

Falsworth’s watching him with wide eyes. He gulps down some more coffee and eventually says. “Well I’ll be dammed.”

Bucky raises his spoon at him in commiseration. “I’m guessing you were only playing for cigarettes and baseball cards, so no harm no foul. How’d you think he used to make his half of the rent when he spent most of the month too sick to work?”

Falsworth starts laughing. “Dugan’s going to flip.”

“Don’t tell him," Bucky replies, "it’s more fun that way. Plus, if you tell him he might realize how many times I’ve scammed a bottle of hooch off him with the same move.” Falsworth laughs harder, so Bucky continues. “I swear, if he hadn’t started getting too cocky with it, forget about the tail end of the Crash, we would have been_ rolling _in it. Right up until the smart ass went up against the other biggest cheat in Brooklyn and got himself so worked up he started playing so dirty you’d spot it from the moon.” Bucky huffs, rolling his eyes before scraping his bowl clean, “Then he only went and got himself a _reputation._”

Falsworth finishes, chuckling. “Maybe it was best for the rest of our rations that you did miss it then. Did you get your nine hours at least?”

Bucky shrugs, “More or less.”

Despite his bright-eyed and bushy-tailed appearance, Falsworth must not have - being up so late and up so early.

“Your bed’s too soft, huh?”

Bucky’s spoon hand stops scrapping the ceramic as he glances up sharply. Falsworth raises an eyebrow. “I saw the pillows on the floor when I passed you earlier, before the door closed.” He admits, obviously keen-eyed. “It’s the same for me too.”

“Oh yeah?”

Falsworth hums, “Even before the work camp you’re sleeping on the ground or _in the ground_ in the trenches. You sleep anywhere; and by the time you actually get to sleep somewhere you’re supposed to - it’s so soft it’s like you’ll sink right through. Like you’re--”

“--Lying on a cloud.” Bucky finishes, softening a little to the man whose so far been nothing but professional. He recognizes the name from the very first conversation he had with a friend-not-friend, a story of how his friend-not-friend was imprisoned.

Falsworth raises his spoon in commiseration this time. “Try putting a couple of blankets under you and build it up - makes it easier to work up to. And believe it or not, once you get past the cloud - it does wonders for your back.”

“You do realize we’re going back out to lying on frozen mud and dirt in three weeks time, right? And huts or tents tonight?”

“Got to take it while you can get it - and that’s my back talking, not my head.”

Bucky nods, considering. He reaches for his big glass of water. “I’ll try that… Thanks.”

(The next night, while on the floor of his Nissen hut, Bucky hears Falsworth shouting and mumbling in his sleep about dead men under his command, and realizes that maybe it’s not just too soft beds that they share.)

“Morning boys!” Dugan rouses from the doorway, Dernier and Steve at his back, chatting to one another in terrible French from Steve’s part. Dugan claps him on the back too hard, as he always does, on his way round the table. Bucky winces slightly but allows it. “What are we talking about this fine morning then?”

“You’re in a good mood,” Bucky comments unhelpfully, “for loosing everything you’ve gained in the last two weeks in one night.”

“Barnes was just dishing out advice so I don’t loose my fancy cigarettes on the next game of Rummie,” Falsworth adds.

Dugan snorts, rolling his eyes. He ignores Bucky and replies to Falsworth. “Please. Don’t listen to a thing out of his mouth, Monty. Such a sore loser---” The man adds, which Bucky argues is_ absolutely not true_ \- Steve raises his eyebrows at his obvious expression - because it might be a little true. “I’m glad he wasn’t playing anyway.”

“Gee, thanks.” Bucky calls back as Dugan wanders into the kitchen to talk to the staff. “Way to make a guy feel welcome.”

Dugan returns a full minute after Steve and Dernier, disrupting the easy peace and quiet he and Falsworth are sharing. He slides a bowl of fruit under Bucky’s nose.

“I’ve already had - two - breakfasts.” He admits and waves off.

“Have a third. Get some meat back onto those bones. We’re running another six miles today and then some, don’t want your frail body giving up on us.”

“_I’m not--_”

“_\--He’s not frail_!” He and Steve almost snap back hotly in unison - a trigger for both of them. 

Dugan sits back in his seat, turning his head right to left to look at them both. “Are you stubborn and stupid instead? Eat the fruit. Get your greens.”

“Technically, they’re red and orange---”

“Shut up, Monty.”

Steve seems to simmer down, and steals a slice or two of extra apple from him. Bucky rolls his eyes, insides still squirming and _god, frail, is he frail now?_ He steals Steve’s coffee, munches on his own apple obediently.

  
. . .

  
Turns out after Project Rebirth and the German doctor getting shot to death a total of one minute and twenty seconds later - no one bothered to test Steve’s capabilities. 

_Oh, they took blood - lots of blood_, enough blood that Steve got mighty dizzy for a while, and then took some more - and a very extensive medical exam - far far more extensive than Bucky's that’s for sure, as Steve tells him in embarrassment one night - but they never explicitly tested how far Steve’s magic-a-million abilities can stretch to. And Steve; facing a lifetime of sitting in a lab and running laps for doctors and technicians he didn’t know; took the first ticket out as a propaganda celebrity after a firm rejection from Army Command. Guaranteed when he began he thought it was going to be more than it was, even if he’s famous now, and far more useful - but a part of Bucky is overwhelming grateful to realize that while he initially signed up for the greater good - he didn’t want to remain a lab rat like Bucky either.

The Allies and the SSR decide to kill two birds with one stone - train them up and get the data they missed out on, and they start pushing Steve to his limits and tracking the progress. For the first week they tell him not to hold back on account of Bucky and the others like he did on their arrival march; and quite frankly; to just_ fucking go for it._

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bucky mutters, noting the time and marking it down as Steve flashes past him on another lap, tucked in arms helping his already stellar momentum even further. 

To keep up the appearance of their friendship and hide his shock he tells Steve he was slower than when he half-ran home to make curfew with three bruised ribs from the Callahan brothers. “You should be disappointed in yourself.” He says as he writes down a incredibly small number for the ten mile run Steve's just completed.

“You should shut your mouth.” Steve retaliates as Jackson calls him to attention. He doesn’t mean it, as what he wants is actually the opposite.

They learn a lot.

Steve can run a mile in two minutes flat, probably under. He can jump a seven foot fence with one leap. He learns to ski to an Olympic level with one lesson, and picks up the names of new equipment and information with incredible ease. Steve's always been super smart no matter what the teachers said, but now his mind moves like a zig zag connecting things that no one would realize are connected until Steve points it out, and then they all go _oh. Oh shit, yeah_. Concepts, once he has the context come naturally to him. They find out he's practically memorized the Army manual and five war strategy books, and can see things at twice the distance the rest of them can. He can hear even further. He picks up new hand-to-hand combat tricks like he's been doing it his whole life. He flies through the assault course. He can lift, to date, a motorbike and eight USO girls, probably with one hand if he puts some more effort in. He's a real killer-diller now.

The scientist/technician (Bucky’s not entirely sure what he is as he generally keeps a rather large distance) the SSR sent up with them says, “skin density is through the roof. It takes a lot of force to break the skin, even more for the muscle to make an impact.”

“How do they know that?” Bucky whispers suspiciously because Steve was missing last night. The guy continues to report his findings to them and some of the Achnacarry senior officers. “Did they try and cut you to test it?”

Steve tells him to shush, and then to shut up, _he’s listening_.

“Did they?” He presses, and Steve elbows him to stop. Dugan glances over at him as he hisses. “The_ fuck_, Steve,_ why would you let them do that?_ For their own documentation? It’s your body - you already know.”

Steve glances at him quickly, a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “I don’t actually.”

Bucky blinks at him, confused. _What? How could you not know your own body?_

_Bucky_ knows his own body, even when he didn’t have ownership of it. He knows every scar it carries, and the ones it doesn’t. He knows every spot of hair he’s ever had yanked out of his scalp in a fight, every occasional freckle. He knows his one crooked tooth at the back of his mouth; how fast he can go at a punching bag and how long he can jump rope for before he has to stop. He knows how to orchestrate a saucy wink and plaster that charming smile he became known for on his face even if he doesn’t bother to use it anymore.

Steve’s always known his own body too. He knew how far he could run before his asthma flared up, how much his shoulder blades used to stick out, how many freckles he used to have peppering his lower back. He knew where and what his limits were so he could always, without hesitation, push them until he nearly permanently crippled himself out of stubbornness. _That was the old Steve_, he realizes, _this is a new Steve._ That Steve-of-now doesn’t know his own body is fairly, or _very, _disconcerting. Now that Bucky thinks about it - when he looked at Steve's bare back in the shower block the other day the freckles on his back weren’t there anymore._ Are all his old scars gone too?_ Now he wants to check every old mole and freckle on Steve’s body to know what else he’s lost.

“We still haven’t hit the upper limits of what he can do.” The scientist or technician or whoever the hell he is says, “I think he could withstand a bullet within reason.”

“We’re not testing that!” Bucky bursts out loudly before he can stop himself. Steve smacks him in the side behind Dugan as every head turns to look at him, but Steve also looks vaguely glad someone called it so he didn’t have too.

Bucky forces himself not to budge on the issue, not to blush at the attention, and the other SSR officer nods and marks it down, motioning to the main results guy. “Yes, best not to test that one, Waters.”

. . .

“How many--” Dernier asks suddenly, faltering as they march their way up a mountain. Dernier’s been lagging behind from the middle point of the march as the most underweight of all of them - he tires easier - so Bucky’s hanging back out of solidarity. Jackson keeps screaming at them to keep up but Bucky, after eight months under training officers has developed a sure-fire method of ignoring them while not looking like he’s ignoring them. “How long have you know each other? Captain Rodgers and you?” He asks in slow, but superb English. He’s been learning like they have - but already had the basics down.

Bucky blinks in surprise at the question, but the answer is easier. “Oh. All my life pretty much, give or take a few years of walkin’ and talkin’.”

“You can tell.” Dernier says.

_Can you? _ Bucky thinks, who knew it was true before - Steve’s ma told them they were spending to much time together, aged twelve, when they started finishing each others sentences. Now the two of them seem further away than ever with the rush of training and command and Agent Carter. He feels like he hasn’t talked to Steve in an age, and yes, that is his fault; even if it is normally. If he even is the same person - because Bucky doesn’t feel like _Bucky_ is half the time. He wonders if Steve even still likes him anymore with all these new people suddenly in his life.

“Small things,” Dernier clarifies, “but you can tell. Definitely. Even if you are not talking much.” That part is said with a very knowing gaze.

“I feel like you’re trying to allude to something here, Jacques.”

“He looks at you a lot. The Captain.” Dernier says, using both hands to support the climb over a particularly steep verge. “He e’s worried.”

“His natural temperament.” Bucky excuses, “you’ll see - he worries about everything - even things that aren’t his business.”

“Like what happened to you?”

Bucky’s fingers stiffen, and the air in his nose and lungs gets colder, and too tight. What had happened? What Had Happened to Bucky involved his jaw and fingers being broken, and his belly being cut open, his skin turning to fire then freezing over. What Happened was Bucky began carrying a locust plague inside his lungs, and a substance in his blood that's also at war. And the thing was this: Bucky’s jaw was as it always was, and his teeth were all in place. The needle marks on his neck have gone, and it’s smooth from shaving and is unblemished. What happened to Bucky while he was away was terrible, awful and disgusting; and it'll always likely be with him; just as Subject #64's memory is and always will be. He misses the feel of a hand in his when he sleeps in his dark hut at night.

“Not something I wanna talk about - to you or him, or anyone.” Bucky says right off.

“I see.” Dernier says, “I am just saying - you are still very close. But it seems different for you with him - did that make sense?”

“It did, sorta’. I’m dealing with it.” He says as a dismissal, at least feeling a bit more secure in his thoughts about Steve if not about himself. “Watch your step.”

“Barnes! Frenchman!” Jackson shouts, “get a move on!”

“Yes sir!” Bucky yells back and picks up the pace. He slows as soon as Jackson’s red hair is facing them again. Steve catches his eye high in the distance, on the top of the cliff well beyond the others - clicking off his stopwatch. They’re making him time himself now since the rest of them can’t keep any sort of time with him themselves. He’s at a great distance, and while Steve can probably see him with his enhanced twenty-twenty vision, he’s still a dark figure in front of a grey sky for Bucky. He doesn’t need to see Steve’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes. Maybe they do still know each other after all. Bucky should probably try harder for him.

Dernier coughs into his elbow as Bucky toes a loose rock just above the man. It wobbles - so he bounces on it to check the stability in a not very safe way. Something cracks beneath it. It jerks so Bucky hops off. “Don’t stand on that.”

“Are you going to test every rock for me?” Dernier asks, but he doesn’t sound sore about it like some people would. Namely Steve; before. He never liked when Bucky tried to do things for him. “When you fall I’m not going to catch you.”

“_If_ I fall I don’t expect you to, no point loosing all the ground you gained for little old me.” He bounces on another wobbly one, and shakes another with his hand, then clambers up using them both. “These are good.” He says, ignoring Steve’s thrown up arms above him as he sees Bucky doing the reckless bouncing again. 

“Merci.” ("**Thank you**") The man says from behind him.

“For what?” Bucky asks, swearing at Steve with a finger behind Jackson’s still climbing back. Steve does it right back. 

Gabe turns to see what Steve’s gesturing at, snorts, and then Bucky has to duck the arm back down as Jackson spins mid-shout of “What the hell are you laughing at - get your ass moving, Private! This isn’t a joke!”

“Staying back with me. I know it is deliberate - you could be well up there if you’s were trying' like you're supposed to.”

“I’m skinny too.” He argues.

“Qui, you are - but you are still not trying.”

“They cut more slack if there’s two skinny fella’s behind.” Bucky tells him, “then they can’t blame it on our lack of perseverance.”

“Speak for yourself, mon ami. I have grit.” He teases, then adds more gratefully, “though I suppose you have it in a different way.” Bucky shrugs good-natured. “Who joined the Army first?” Dernier then asks, his accent curling round every word he says; Army becoming _arm-hee_. Bucky has always been pretty good at telling what people are saying with accents - but figures it’s not fair to make Jacques do all the work in their motley bilingual crew.

“Tu parles beaucoup, Jacques, tu le savais?” (“**You talk a lot, Jacques, did you know that?**”)

“So did you, before.” Jacques replies in English. “Stay in one language,_ I_ am practicing today.” He fires right back. He has a point, seeing as yeah, when they met Bucky was darker than he was when he left Steve; but was still a motherfucking chatterbox.

He shrugs at him as an answer. “I’m talkin’ to you now, ain’t I? And Steve.” He says because it’s technically true - who was waiting at the draft office doors a day, and then again in two weeks, and then another week after that following Pearl Harbour? Steve, that’s who. “But I’ve been in it longer - five months before--you know where, overseas. Eight months of training before. Waste of time really, since they just shipped me out like whatever 'cause they needed the numbers.”

“Might not be a waste now--” Dernier comments, “you already know some-- a lot of this--”

“I know how to shoot, D. Not much else.” Bucky waves off, “but Steve first, technically.”

Dernier chuckles once, like this confirmed what he already believed. “He seems like the type, a man of action. But he is still learning, yes?”

Bucky glances up at the figure on the cliff, now joined by two others; one stood, one resting on a rock. He doesn’t want Dernier or any one of the others to doubt Steve. “He’ll pick it up.” He defends, “he’s quick in his head as well as the rest of him. Always has been.”

To his relief Dernier doesn’t argue. He seems to have already moved onto a different thread. “I did not intend to join any army but I was - as you Americans say ‘drafted’ -” he very carefully doesn’t say ‘like you’, which would be a sort-of-correct guess, but it’s there. He sighs, “my country did not act quick enough - thought too much of their border defenses, and then it was too late. So I took up fighting another way.” He continues, “I was already into my fire-tricks - knew my gunpower as a Démolition man.” He scratches his chin as Bucky gives him a hand up. “You know the national anthem of France? Maybe you do not. It’s called La Marseilles. You know what it tells about? Where it comes from?”

“Can’t say I do.” Bucky replies, who’d grown up around immigrants but none of them, to his knowledge, properly French aside from Colette - and they normally had much more bodily things on their minds. He can hum it a bit, but only because people tended to hum it at the Allies a lot in Italy.

“It talks - it is about freedom.” Dernier says, “from tyrants, any kind, but also from foreign invaders. It is called La Marseillaise because when the revolution was having - was happening - people from my city sang it so much.” He draws his canteen out and a small bag of nuts from his pack. After taking a gulp, passes it to Bucky with the last handful of nuts. Bucky takes them both gratefully; he’s so fucking hungry. “And so, “Dernier says when he returns the canteen, “when the _le boshe_ \- we call them that since the first war - marched into Paris I said to my wife: I know what I must do. Not again.”

Bucky listens carefully, knowing this is going somewhere but also infinitely interested too. He can’t imagine to know what he would do or how he feel if the _bosche_ marched their way into Times Square or Central Park or even if they landed on the Manhattan shoreline. He lets the nuts sink to his stomach, imagining they're heated chestnuts at Christmas, which is soon. Dernier sounds like Steve; patriotic and determined and so assured in what’s right and wrong - Bucky used to be like that too. What Steve would have done if the Germans or the Japs had marched into Washington or home doesn’t bear even thinking about; so again, maybe they aren’t so different after all. Some things stick.

“I remember when the first war ends. Ended. I was seven years old. Almost eight. We had parties for days and days. I remember the cakes but I remember our flag flying most of all. It’s over, everyone says, it’s over. But I didn’t believe it - and then my father came home and I did.”

_My pop didn’t come home from this war. I thought I wouldn’t either_ \- he’d thought he’d leave his ma and sisters and Steve trapped in the uncertainty of his life-death - flesh turned to ash in an crematorium thousands and thousands of miles away.

“I am saying this because you were not born before the first war ended - you grew up free - until now. I understand what it feels like not to let the freedom settle even when you have it…”

“I said I don’t want to--”

Dernier holds up a hand as they crest the final verge - he can hear the boys catching their breath and Steve finishing dictating his times and descriptions. “I am just saying, mon ami, not making you talk; that my country may not be free yet, and we are not free of the war either - but we, ourselves, are freer than we were.”

He pats Bucky on the shoulder, “It is something to remember.”

  
. . .

  
They decide to test Steve's brain next.

It's something about altered brain chemistry or structure or something-something-something, Bucky discovers. He's not entirely sure - outside of making sure Steve didn't suffocate from lack of asthma powder or sweat his way to death from a fever the medical stuff has never been his thing. He knows how to check for a concussion, because that's one of the first things they learnt in Boxing, (_and street fighting. So if that's what you two hooligans are going to keep getting up to, _Sarah once said_, then sit down and learn some more._) He knows how to treat bullet wounds now too; which essentially equates to throw sulphate powder on it and bandage it the hell up; and if you can, stitch it - but concussion wise that's all he knows about the head. Apparently the chemical make-up of the brain is thought to be nearly identical to the makeup of the peripheral nervous system - and seeing how all of Steve’s body chemistry has changed it’s not that much of a stretch that the stuff in his noggin’ has also changed.

“How the hell are they gonna test that?” Dugan asks in general one evening. _Why the hell are you even letting them test you_, Bucky thinks scornfully.

X-rays won’t work because it’s all soft tissue, and so that’s how he learns about this neurosurgery they do to get an image of the blood vessel structures, injecting filtered blasts of air into the brain with trephine holes drilled into the skull under local anaesthesia.

“It’s not usually a painful procedure.” The idiot taking the notes says when Bucky marches in and throws the proposed paperwork the man submitted at him in a fit. It’s the only time he approaches the guy. “He’d be back at base in a day from the hospital.”

“You know what that says there;” Bucky spits at him, jabbing a finger into the descriptions of the proposal - “risks. Haemorrhage, which I asked about - is bleeding inside his head, infection, _dangerous changes in intercranial pressure. Drilling into his head._ He’s not doing that.”

“You’re not doing it.” He says directly to Steve too.

“I know I’m not. I said no.” Steve says right off.

“You did?”

“_Hell yes_.” Steve says, glancing, green-tinged, at the crinkled paperwork Bucky has now thrown at his feet too. The boys who are around glance awkwardly between them. “Despite what you might think I do have limits, I have a line. I’m not letting them touch my head like that. Too much like…” He trails off. Bucky knows he’s thinking about lobotomies.

“Will they listen to you?” Bucky asks outright, ready to run with him and damn the consequences if he needs to.

Steve blinks at him, mind boggled. “What--yes Bucky, of course. They don’t do shit like that against your will. It was a stupid suggestion from lower in the ranks. Philips had already canned the whole idea outright when it was suggested - the second it was. I didn’t even need to say no. They’re not Hydra Bucky.”

He swallows, forcing himself to relax. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Steve asks, because he’s not doing a great job of convincing anybody yet.

. . .

For all that Steve is the owner of a medal of honour, Lieutenant Colonel Vaughan doesn’t restrain from pointing out Steve’s inexperience. In privacy of course, four days in. There’s several conversations about it in the days that follow, and he just happens to be in the right area to eavesdrop on this one.

Bucky‘s having some downtime to himself while the others are off boxing or smoking. He's in what he thinks is the old reception room of the estate, remolded in the Victorian style, which has the largest windows he’s found in the place so far. The training is brutal, inexplicably so, and they’re expected to practice or develop their fitness even when they’re not training; but Bucky’s not feeling it today. They’re all struggling, one way or another. He hears the two officers as they wander past his window in a stroll around the property.

“No offense meant, Captain, but while you’re in charge of this squad, you’re also the biggest liability. Morita’s got communications training - Falsworth’s a Major and already Airborne Trained, with command instruction under his belt - Dugan has seven years service - and Barnes already has a fair chunk of our curriculum in him from the training he never finished in the States. You, you have Basic.”

Steve sighs out in response, “That’s absolutely accurate, sir.”

Vaughan hums. He, at least, seems to approve of Steve’s honesty.

“We need to ensure you’re not one by the end of this. I won’t be responsible for your squad failing on it’s first mission because of your men slacking in training--”

“They won’t, and are not sir--”

“Or a bad call on your part in the field.”

“That’s…that’s fair.” This, Steve will allow.

“You’ll need, what I can’t call anything else other than a ‘crash course’. One on one.”

“That’d be….That’d be great, sir. I’m here for any advice you can give me - I’m here to listen and learn.”

“Good.” Lieutenant-Colonel Vaughan replies promptly. “First bit if advice - pick a second. Someone to help you make calls if you struggle to find the right one. There’s only so much we can teach you here - and most of it’s practical. You’re a new unit, but it’s best if it’s someone you can trust.”

“I trust all of them.” Steve vehemently insists.

Lieutenant-Colonel Vaughan seems less impressed by that.

“Any one more than the others?”

Steve only pauses for a moment, like he’s considering. “Sergeant Barnes.”

Through the corner of the curtain, Bucky see’s Vaughan nod contemplatively. “You’ve known each other since you were children, I understand?”

“Yes, sir. He’s never led me wrong.”

Bucky can’t help but close his eyes at that simple but assured statement, biting his lip until it twinges with pain.

“That kind of history can be a good quality in a squad’s second, but it also cannot be. One faulty suggestion that you follow, simply because it came from your friend, could be all it takes.”

“I wouldn’t just follow anything blindly, sir. I’d consider all the options available and judge appropriately.” Steve rebuts.

“Perhaps.” Vaughan says. “Do you trust Sergeant Barnes judgement at this current state in time?” 

They’ve walked past his vision, but Bucky hears them stop and Steve bristle up. He waits silently, for the answer.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Steve replies, respectful but hard. “I don’t understand what you’re suggesting.”

“You’re a smart man, Captain Rodgers. You might not have the experience, but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders - you know exactly what I’m suggesting. I’m high enough in Allied clearance to have yours and all your men’s files, even the French Resistance Fighter. The updated ones in fact, as of yesterday. I’ve read them. And right now, I can’t tell if Sergeant Barnes even recognizes the very same act he’s playing out for all of us here. Any state of ‘fatigue’ or shell--”

“He’s not fatigued. Or shell shocked.”

Bucky breathes in slowly. _You tell them, Steve. I’m fine. I’m fine. To everyone else I’m fine. I can handle it. I can cope. I’m not going to fall apart on you, I promise._

“You might not believe so, or you might not want to admit it to yourself - Let me finish!” Vaughan instructs sharply, sounding as if he's put up a hand to stop Steve's interuption. “I’ll ask again. Do you trust his judgement one-hundred percent? Because I don’t. And only half of that is because of what I read.” 

“Sir--” Steve finally interrupts.

Vaughan interrupts him right back. “You asked me to be frank, Rodgers, and I am being.”

Bucky can physically imagine Steve calming himself down from the between-the-teeth sigh he hears through the open window. Though even to authority it seems Steve’s not all that great at hiding his contempt. Probably why he almost got arrested that one time.

“Then what do you suggest, sir?”

“Well, first. You’re choice for a second shouldn’t be personal, in my opinion, it’s best to keep these things professional. Now Barnes’ history on paper would be one of the best options, but, there are others.”

“Major Falsworth, you mean?” Steve goes to clarify. It makes sense, more than him certainly. Falsworth has the training, completed at that, and is of a higher rank than Steve already, if they’re being technical about it.

“That’s one option, he has the training.” Vaughan allows - _ditto_ \- “but unfortunately has proven otherwise on the field.”

“I’ve heard and seen the report he gave following the rescue.” Steve says, “I know his account of it and others who were there. I don’t judge or infer negatively for that--”

“You should. It was a tough situation, with a bad outcome, but he _is_ accountable. So do consider it Captain, as I’ve told you to do with Sergeant Barnes. Another option again is Sergeant Dugan. Personality aside--” Bucky can’t help but almost snort at that, which would give himself away most likely. ”-- he shows promise. And he has the most experience out of anyone on your squad - double than most considering he served before the Americans joined the party on this front.”

“So Dugan is your suggestion.”

“Dugan is_ a_ suggestion. As is Falsworth. As is Barnes. None are the perfect choice and I can’t make that decision for you, only advise you----”

Bucky gets up, he doesn’t need to hear the rest of this conversation. He takes on last look at his big window, and goes to see if the cooks will give him something on the side he doesn’t have to cook over a fire himself between meals. He doubts it, but has to try.

Steve always seems to get double or triple the usual portion to account for his metabolism when they cook, and every day Bucky finds himself staring longingly at the plate.

He’s hungry all of the time now.

  
. . .

“So what else you got?” Gabe asks curiously. “Apart from the insane speed and strength?”

They’ve just come off watching Steve lift three four metre tree trunks in a row, when it took four of_ them_ to lift one easily, followed by clambering up and down the rope like a monkey on the assault course. Then he’d moved onto five tree trunks balanced atop one another, and then a motorbike, and then how many of the semi-commandos he could lift in one go. It turns out all of them; with ease, before he unceremoniously drops them all in a pile as penance for betting he couldn't. They bet him he can't climb the monkey rope with four of them on his back - which if it wasn't getting dark he would probably readily accept. They’ve been making bets and pot-shots on where his cut off point is going to be whilst marking down their own informal results that Command probably shouldn’t see. '_How many commandos can Captain America lift up to the third floor window of a brothel'_, is not one they’d probably approve of.

“Howard Stark might.” Steve had commented casually when Falsworth brought up that exact fact; and Bucky had sprayed his water down his front. He keeps forgetting that Steve’s in with the greatest inventor and engineer in their lifetime. Steve likes to laugh at his celebrity crush every time it’s brought up, but if you ask him its a perfectly acceptable celebrity crush.

In all honesty the latest competition went on a lot longer than they thought it would.

“Um, healing.” Steve says, sat stretched out and swallowing water from his canteen. Before this the SSR men were very carefully and very safely (_apparently_, not that Bucky believes it) testing how long he could go without water until the numbers of their results log started decreasing - so he’s catching up now on all the canteens he and the boys kept trying to throw him to get him to drink outside of eye-shot. He kept refusing, as he wanted the results to be accurate if they were going to do it, and he was fine; so therefore he just had to put up with constantly having to catch the canteens each man kept tossing to him. “It’s not just the muscles and blood affected by the serum. That’s why they wanted to check the brain chemistry. One of the factors Erksine chose me…”

He clears his throat awkwardly, humble until the very end. _Good becomes great_, he’d said to Bucky, but Steve has always been great. He kinda wishes Erksine hadn’t seen it too sometimes; before; when it was just a Sarah Rodgers and Bucky Barnes secret were the good times. For him anyway, though he wonders more now if they were at all for Steve, and how oblivious he must have been to realize Steve would go this far to change things. Steve continues, “is cause he believed it would amplify personality traits too. So he wanted to make sure he had the right recipient. It's why he didn’t want to give it willy-nilly to any guy in the army. We don’t want another Red Skull, trust me.”

“And has it?”

"Has it what?"

"Amplified your personality traits."

Steve shrugs and says, “I’m not sure” at the same time Bucky says “yes.”

He’s polishing his shoes to get Vaughan of his back, so he only belatedly realizes Steve’s glanced over at him in surprise.

“Do you think so?” He asks, interested. “Peggy thought so a little, but she only knew me for a month and a half before.”

“You’re more annoying now, does that count?”

“Oh shove off,” Steve says, throwing his sweaty over-shirt at him. Bucky would ask if he was cold but it seems Steve’s never cold now, he’s always warm when Bucky brushes up against him. “I’m serious. Am I? Like; more than I was?”

“Sarge?” Morita prompts as he stops polishing to find the words to describe it.

He looks at Steve, “If I say to you: There’s a car coming, the driver’s drunk. It’s his fault. He got into the car off his face - doesn’t care what happens - and he’s going to crash. He’s not a solider, not in war; this is just normal life. He’s going to kill ten people when he does, but if you shoot him at the top of the road he’ll die and the car will stop before it hits the people at the bottom of the road. You’ll save ten people if you kill him. Gut feeling. Would you do it?”

“Absolutely not. Murder in that way is still murder.”

“Wouldn’t budge?”

“No.” Steve says, looking suspicious and wary, “not a chance.”

“See, before you’d still say no - you wouldn’t kill him, but you _would_ shoot him somewhere non-lethal to distract him and find a way to change the course of the car. Or you'd throw yourself in front of him halfway down the hill and sacrifice yourself to slow it down. You’d figure a way out of the dilemma in a flash so you didn’t have to abide by it, even by gut feeling. There's always normally a but. You’re that stubborn that you won’t even follow pretend fictional rules let alone real ones.” 

Steve jerks back, frowning as he thinks about it. The moment of illumination is obvious as he realizes Bucky is right and that it's true - he wouldn't obey the rules. He wouldn't admit he's breaking them, but he wouldn't strictly follow them either. He seems uncomfortably surprised he’s only just realized that none of those thoughts went through his head. 

“It’s like your morality code can’t see in shades of grey no more’. Just right and wrong - you’ve always been that way - it’s just a bit more obvious now, I guess. Don’t know how else to explain it.” Bucky says, then has to say, “stop with that face, will you? It’s only a little; you’re still you. It’s not a big deal.”

"Right okay," Steve says eventually, and turns to Gabe. "Guess that's a yes then."

. . .

Afterwards, with hindsight, Bucky recognizes it probably is a really big deal to Steve to realize his entire method of thinking and ethics has changed without him being aware of it. Bucky’s so fucking stupid not to have discerned it before. _It’s not a big deal? You stupid stupid imbecile. You utter fucking mook, what is wrong with you?_ He knows what it feels like to feel like you’ve lost yourself without even realizing you were loosing yourself; and Steve’s face after he pointed out the changes said it all. He was frowning, and chewing on the inside of his cheek; gone from “I’m not sure” to “I’m even more different than I first thought.”

Steve’s never wanted to stand out and be different, but he always has been - he’s only ever really wanted, or he did before, to fit in.

When is Bucky going to learn to shut his stupid mouth? Steve is going to fit in and be happy if it’s the last thing Bucky does goddammit.

  
. . .

“I think I may have screwed up.” He says to Steve at breakfast, dragging him over the side to repack their bags. Steve had said, ‘mine’s already packed’ so Bucky had turned it upside down so everything fell out. Steve hadn’t even had to energy to be angry at him, gave out more of a resigned, ‘really, you're such a fucking asshole.’

‘Is this a move to talk to me?’ He said after, beginning to repack it.

‘Yes,' Bucky had said, ignoring the fact that really he didn’t need to orchestrate 'a move' to talk to his best friend. ‘I think I may have screwed up.’

“When?” Steve says, “I don't see how. At training the other day, maybe, you were a little--”

“--No not about that, I don’t care about that--”

“--You _should_, you’re not even trying--”

“---I meant with us. With you.”

Steve shakes his head, bewildered. “What?” He breathes quietly, “what are you--”

“Yesterday. With the stupid - what I said. The personality thing.”

“You didn’t---you didn’t say anything wrong, Buck, just the thing you noticed--”

“No, I did, because it made you feel like shit. I didn’t mean it like - fuck I don’t know, but you weren’t supposed to take it like that. But I get why you are. It is a big deal - I’m sorry.”

“And what way have I taken it?” Steve says a little defensively, and then rolls his eyes at himself under his eyelids before Bucky even has to call him on it.

“What I _should_ have said,” Bucky stresses, already kicking himself for not thinking this through before he started the goddamn conversation. “--was that yeah; you’re sticking to the rules more instead of going explicitly against them - but you’re still--you’re still you.”

“Just different. Different enough that you noticed so easily--”

“No that’s not--- Jesus, why is that words come so easily when I accidentally say something shitty to you, but when I’m trying to make you feel better all I can come up with is ‘you’re still you’. What kind of fucking line is that,_ Jesus Barnes._” He spits at himself, annoyed. “Why are you even friends with me?”

Steve’s chuckling into himself, trying not to laugh. There's a fondness in his eyes Bucky has only every really seen directed at him or his mother. “What kinda line is that?” He repeats, “The kinda line I’m used to from you, you emotional mook.” Steve says, nudging him playfully. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for…I’m, I’m glad you said it actually. Made me realize that…”

“That what?”

“It’s hard to explain -" Steve says, and to be fair to him, unlike Bucky; he opens his mouth and actually tries to explain what's happening to him. "Obviously I knew the serum had changed me, but...it’s like its a living thing inside my body and I thought that - you know, we were one in the same, working together to do stuff. And yeah, I admit, it freaked me out yesterday when you said what you said because you were so right - the second I started thinking about it I found like three ways of solving that dilemma so it wasn’t a dilemma. It freaked me out because for months I’ve been letting my gut feelings rule me, like I always have. To realize that the serum itself had overtaken my judgement without me even noticing is crazy because - it means all those decisions weren't actually me making them.”

“Well, sure they were. You can't disregard every choice you made 'cause of that. They still will have been your decisions, Steve.”

“Not really.” Steve disagrees. “The serums not working with me if it’s overtaking the way I think - it’s like a separate being.”

“Or not a--a being? It’s not a living thing Steve.” Bucky reassures, because _god, that’s a scary thought._

“I told you it’s hard to explain.” He commiserates, smiling. “I know now so I can just--make sure that I don’t let it overtake me - once I’ve got that figured out I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Bucky says doubtfully, “but for the record - you’re still you.” He quotes his shitty line to make Steve smile again. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and Bucky is glad to see it works. “And I’m still sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, pal.” He says nudging him again, “come on, you stop feeling sorry yourself and I will too, how about that?”

  
. . .

  
That night in the evening Bucky decides to join them in cards. A few of the other training recruits and Staff Sergeants join in, so it’s a good gang of them. So much so they need several packs of cards, which makes it both harder and easier. Steve’s flicking through his cards - seems to make a decision then pauses, and Bucky can see him making sure it’s him and not the serum dictating his hand.

Steve scratches at his leg with his left hand. _Oh,_ Bucky thinks in amusement,_ so we’re making the executive moral decision to cheat are we?_

Monty pauses ever so slightly, eyes catching it, and puts down a safe five instead of the three like Steve probably wants. Bucky raises an eyebrow at his friend from across the table, and Steve half smirks at him. Dugan swears downheartedly when Steve puts down his second string hand, coming out on top even when thwarted. Dugan folds. Morita and another Staff Sergeant too, getting ready to hand over their wares again. 

Bucky lays down his own hand, eyes never leaving Steve’s face. Steve’s smirk drops.

“You cheated.” He instantly accuses.

Bucky leans back in his chair. “Did I?” He asks nonchalantly, folding a card back up his sleeve. “Prove it.”

“I didn’t see anything untoward.” Falsworth immediately backs him up - to Bucky’s immense amusement. “But,” Falsworth adds, “I think you dropped something Captain.”

Steve turns automatically to make sure he hasn’t dropped a card.

Seeing nothing like him, Bucky says, “You must be seeing something, Monty, just like Steve is trying to pretend he has.” He pulls his winnings towards him. “It’s not nice to be a sore loser, Steve.”

If Steve were still skinny, he would have hit him by now.

He smacks him over the head on the way to bed instead.

“Jerk.”

“Get some better tells, asshole.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REFERENCES
> 
> BOCHES/BOCHE/BOSCHE: boche or bosche is a derisive term used by the Allies (mostly the French) during World War I and World War II, often collectively ("the Boche" meaning "the Germans"). It is a shortened form of the French slang portmanteau alboche, itself derived from Allemand ("German") and caboche ("head" or "cabbage"). The alternative spellings "Bosch" or "Bosche" are sometimes found.
> 
> KILLER-DILLER: 40s Slang word for Something that is the best, or amazing.  
VITA CHAMBER: The machine Howard Stark built for Project Rebirth, which is powered by Vita-Rays.
> 
> NOTES:  
LIEUTENANT COLONEL VAUGHAN AND ACHNACARRY : Vaughan was a real person - and he ran all the training of all the commandos in Achnacarry, which included all British commandos, Polish Resistance and officers, American, Canadian and many others. They trained close to six hundred commandos, who are one of the highest-level of trained soldiers of that era; identical now to the modern day SAS, in the time period of 1941-1943, and continued operating until after the end of the war, training even more. All of the operations described is what is described in the Achnacarry Wikipedia and History page.
> 
> NEUROSURGERY MENTIONED : In 1918 the American neurosurgeon Walter Dandy introduced the technique of ventriculography whereby images of the ventricular system within the brain were obtained by injection of filtered air directly into one or both lateral ventricles of the brain via one or more small trephine holes drilled in the skull under local anaesthesia. Though not usually a painful procedure, ventriculography carried significant risks to the patient under investigation, such as haemorrhage, infection, and dangerous changes in intracranial pressure. Nevertheless, the surgical information given by this method was often remarkably precise and greatly enlarged the capabilities and accuracy of neurosurgical treatment.


	19. PART 12 (b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is he without the serum? The more appropriate question: who is he without his best friend? He doesn’t know, but he does know he’s a better man with him that without him and it’s an insult to the both of them to think otherwise.
> 
> Who is he without the serum, he asks himself again. He’s the guy who stormed a base alone just to bring his best friend home. That’s who.

WARNING: There are mentions of period insults and slurs in this chapter. In no way do I condone any of them.

* * *

STEVE

  
When Steve put together his team in Surrey there was one thing he was worried about: Dugan and Morita. 

It’s the only reservation he has regarding the team - followed sort of by that all of them are going to need to become at the very least semi-fluent as quickly as possible in French to get by. Dugan, when he listens to the nightly radio reports, mentions the war in the Pacific often enough. He’s lived through Africa and Europe - but his pilot brother lived and died on Luzon, in the Philippines, killed when the Japanese annihilated nearly the entirety of US Air-Force there at the tail end of ‘41; one day after Pearl Harbour. He doesn’t bother wasting time lamenting his own treatment by Hydra but he does for his dead for near-two years brother. He talks about the Japs a lot. In the two weeks in England before they catch the bus Steve hears the terms Nip, Butterhead, Jank, Niponese and Cracker Jap. In no way are all of them said by him, but they have been said in conversations involving him.

Later he found out Bucky apparently had sparked himself out of the quiet rut he’d fallen into with a sharp shove and snapped word, intercepting and aborting an attempt of ‘Cheese Nip’ from someone else.

It’s a similar contempt people had for the Irish on Vinegar Hill at home. Steve remembers thinking of the way it could almost sometimes seem friendly in the markets - ‘_the stupid mick there, he’s got the best fish in town!’_ \- though maybe everything just sounds shorter and sharper these days with the raised stakes. The fact that Bucky broke out of his self-imposed silence says a lot though. Like a lot of things - Steve knows that kind of attitude to people is not always one able to be won against, though _god did he try_ at home, but now he can do other things - he thinks he can throw his two cents in at this too.  
  
In Surrey he'd decided he was going to batter this issue out before they finished training, or better yet, before they started. He’d tried to talk to them separately, and to others. It was only semi-successful and Morita had told him to leave it. "Don't bother Cap," he'd said resignedly, but there was a spark of anger in his eyes. "Can't be helped - what goes around comes around though. Thanks for trying, all the same." 

“I’m not done trying.” He’d rebutted quite frankly. “It’s not gonna stand. Not in my unit, not anywhere.”

Bucky had snorted, sat as close to the heater in the Surrey barracks as he was able. He’d said, “and there you go. He’s not done trying. Sit back, put your feet up, Jim, and watch the master of reformist arguments work.”

He’d tried several approaches over four or five days - in the end it ends like this: two days into Scotland in the middle of a training exercise. 

“Squash this or I won’t take either of you out in the field.” He'd said.

His second and third grilling had worked; late at night when Dugan was several drinks in the night before they shipped out - and they’d settled it with Dugan cocking his fists like a prize fighter, the circus showman that he was as a teenager, with a: “Great. Put ‘em up, Jimbo.” And Morita had clocked him with a good one right as Steve said, “Not that way.”

“Great job Steve!” Bucky had yelled over the wind with a sarcastic thumbs up nearer the front as Steve broke up the fight. He has them broken up and a story ready when the Lieutenants fall back to see what's taking them so long; after already being delayed by Bucky and Jones who it seems has also been unwittingly roped into his pursuit to harmonize their team.

“You’ve got a hell of a backhand.” Dugan says casually that evening, in the here and now whilst in the shower block.

Steve listens outside on a stool sketching for once, one ear on the voices and sprinkling water in case he needs to step in. Bucky sits beside him, taking up the small table by taking apart the training rifle he’d been given, oiling it piece by piece before slotting it back together. It’s a Lee Enfield, Steve has learnt, but Bucky’s asked for a Springfield over a Johnson from the Army when they ship out; and has specially asked for a German scope. Apparently they are miles better than the "_shit the US Army gives you, not even x2 magnification_." Apparently he came across a German sniper once and liberated the scope off his rifle, a _Zeiss_ scope, and it ‘changed the game’ the first time he adjusted it. Dugan had rolled his eyes when he heard it, obviously having heard that particular rant before. 

“I don’t have to like them to admit they manufacture better.” Bucky had said, and waved Steve off when he asked if he wanted a German or other-made rifle as well; a _Mauser_ or _Mosin Nagant_ for example. Bucky said no, because while they are good the _Mosin Nagants_ can be a bit fiddly apparently, particular to the person and not to be shared within the unit in an emergency, and his training officer always used to say Springfields are better for longer range.

His eyes are downcast, focused, as he murmurs faintly to himself. It sounds like he’s counting numbers first, then Steve realizes Bucky’s counting the beats of a song he recognizes vaguely but can’t name. He shades in the shadow the rifle makes against the table. Listening to the rest of what Jim and Dum Dum are saying he realizes how much keener his hearing has gotten; normally lost in the cacophony of audience cheers or the beat of ‘Star Spangled Man’ from behind him. He realizes he can overhear more than people would believe - which will come in handy in the field.

“You got your fair amount of hits in too.” Morita replies.

Dum Dum grunts, “Still, you’ve got some speed in you.”

“Fairs fair. I had a lot to hit you over.”

Steve firms his feet on the ground ready to stand. Dugan laughs then says suddenly, groaning as the hot water cascades down his bruised side. “We good?”

“Yeah three-pint Charlie Chaplin, we can be. You?”

There’s a wet slap as Dugan must pat his shoulder, “You’re alright with me. Sorry man, for the shit.”

Steve blinks, _is that it?_ His next plan involved a copious amount of two player poker, or locking them in a room together, the smaller the better. Morita heads out the bathroom block, spying them. “Were you waiting out here like a mama bear, Captain?” He asks with a little amusement.

“Convenient place to draw.” He excuses mildly.

“Yeah, sure.”

“That sounded amicable…” he dares to comment.

Jim hums, “we’ll see if there’s another comment but it seems so. Thanks Cap,” he says seriously, “means a lot that you made a point to---you know. And Screw you Barnes.” He adds with mock affect.

“I expect my shoes shined and my extra pair of socks by evening meal Jim. Don’t make bets with the master.”

“Yeah yeah, you’ll have them, you jerk.” Morita fires out, rolling his eyes; then walks off with his towel over one shoulder.

Steve gives Bucky a dull look, “You seriously bet on if they would kiss and make-up?”

“Technically they were never made up to begin with,” Bucky comments lightly, “and if it makes you feel any better my bet was based on your success.”

“My success on what?”

“Your quest as the master of liberal caroling. Congratulations. You won.”

Steve smiles, smug and victorious. “I did, didn’t I?”

“I’d say don’t let it go to your head but your head’s too big enough already to squeeze it in.”

“Least I’ve got a brain to begin with - shame you're fighting with a skull as empty as a gamblers wallet.”

Bucky huffs with laughter, and starts murmuring a beat again. Steve goes back to his drawing, ignoring Dugan’s “goddam lurkers” as he passes them.

“Steve.” Bucky says.

“Yeah?”

“Stop drawing me.”

“Good luck getting that to happen.” Steve answers as a no, tilting his head as he shades over dirty knuckles to get the right level of oil shine on skin and metal. “What, you only like me drawing you draped on a podium like a dramatic courtesan now?”

“It’d be more interesting than that.”

“I’ll judge that for myself seeing as it’s _my_ sketchbook. Not every drawing of you can involve your nipples and copious amounts of cloth.”

“In my defence the drapery was Bertie’s idea.”

“The Renaissance pose was yours I recall.”

“I was giving you a muse for a drawing of great majesty. To make you famous. Me cleaning a gun is hardly at the same standard as that piece of genius.”

“Didn’t you hear? I’m already famous.”

“Oh god forbid, I forgot.”

“Do you want my autograph?”

“Will you sign my ass?”

“Not right now I won’t.”

“Then _no._”

  
. . .

Dugan doesn’t make any more comments, not even close - it’s like a whole new book is turned instead of a single page, and suddenly the two of them are getting on like a house on fire.

On Sunday morning, the only late morning start they have before hand-to-hand combat Bucky wakes up to Steve’s signature scrawled on his forehead in ink.

“You motherfucker.” He curses, running to the bathroom block with a bar of soap.

  
. . .

  
A full week in, there’s less card games and more early nights. The closest they get to comfortable sleep is on the ground in a tent or hut, often times rotating round to share with each person, and exercises are conducted using live ammunition and explosives to make training as realistic as possible; with cross country runs and boxing matches to improve fitness nearly every morning. Training, rain or shine; continued by day and dark night with river crossings, mountain climbing, weapons training, unarmed combat, map reading and small boat operations often with little warning. They cooked and semi-hunted their own food some days to ensure they could survive without ration-packs, no matter how exhausted they are after the days work, and often times have to spend an hour before lights out cleaning all the mud off their uniforms everyday to be ready for a sparkling salute at parade in the morning.

Compared to Basic and the physical condition he was in then compared to his peak now, this training is miles easier, even with the alternative conditions they put to his own training - it’s a piece of cake - but it’s wearing the others down heartily. None of them were at their peak condition when they started, most of them underweight - Dernier and Bucky almost alarmingly so, but they’re stubbornly holding out to their credit. They’re putting weight on now, and gaining muscle back - but they’re exhausted for it. Both of their cheeks are fuller than they were last week to Steve’s immense relief, and he’s only caught Bucky throwing up once - but his friend looks less well rested by the day - no matter how early he turns in before the rest of them.

There’s more than exhaustion to Bucky’s early nights and lingering groves of silence though; a kind of paranoia he hasn’t seen from him before exists now. He’s seen him upset and panicked in the past; when Steve’s been so sick it looked like it was time to call the priest, or that time when he accidentally left the front door open and two year old Jenna took herself off to explore the neighbourhood - but it’s not the same. There’s a different kind of look in his eyes, bright and distrusting, and he stays at the back when the SSR men give their reports. He’s likes his things in their place, and keeps his pack close - whether it’s nerves they’ll take it off him or the idea they’d root through his stuff Steve doesn’t know - but he’s noticed enough to know not to touch.

He doesn’t think the SSR data records on his serum have helped, only made it worse in fact. He’s paranoid for Steve now instead of himself no matter how many times Steve tells him he gave consent, or that what they’re recording will do no real damage - or any damage to him at all. It’s not anything like, or even close to what he suspects happened to Bucky, but that doesn’t seem to matter to his friend. 

Steve heard him mumbling and calling out in his sleep the other night through the canvas, and last night too. Shouts of “stop”, “please”, “hot hot it’s hot,” and the worse one he’s heard so far is the aborted shout of “papa!” right before the shadow of Bucky through the canvas shot upright into wakefulness. 

“Buck…?” Steve had called, who himself was still up reading by firelight; and already having been on his way to wake him. He’d pulled open the canvas flap lightly, so not to wake Gabe sleeping beside him as Bucky caught his breath. “You okay?”

Bucky had jolted, surprised; then nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Go back to sleep.” He’d said quickly, and turned back on his side before Steve could say another word. Head-wise, he seemed to be doing better at the other camp. Since the debrief, he’s worse again.

He’s not sure how to bring it up, if he should at all. Bucky has made it mighty clear from the first night here - and even before then that he didn’t want to discuss what had happened. And Steve has tried to respect that but he can also recognize that his friend is steadily pulling away from him and pushing Dugan and Falsworth in his place.

There’s been several suggestions of, “Falsworth would be a good shout for that. He’d have some good advice for you in that situation.”

And, “You know, Dugan once had to take over command of a secondary squad after their NCO was killed, and orchestrated a sliding assault down a sand dune, and in the same breath recovered three of theirs and took two prisoners. You should ask him about it, it was a thing of beauty apparently. He’s great when it comes to something like that with his experience. You know he was in Tunisia before Italy?”

And while Bucky talks and interacts with him like they’re back home most days, he doesn’t touch him with the easy familiarity he used to either. 

(Some days he doesn’t do either, just forces himself through freezing cold water with a look on his face like he can’t even feel the chill, and pulls the other men out of the river bed in silence.)

Bucky’s always been rather tactile, swinging him in under his shoulder as they walked, teasing punches, dumping his feet in Steve’s face when he was bored and wanted his attention; and he’s not anymore. He’s compressed and controlled, and tightly held together. Logically, he knows it’s probably his friend trying to deal with whatever horrific experience he went through, but also, _it could be him. He’s so different now, in body and thoughts._ So much so that Bucky picked up on it like he had X-Ray vision; and while Steve is glad he’s no longer living in obliviousness to the chemical take-over of his personality - it’s still a very perturbing feeling. 

. . .

“Hey Cap?” Dugan queries in the shower block under the sound of pattering water and the slap of soap on skin. He makes his way from one shower station to the one next to Steve over the slippery tile.

“Yeah?” He asks, glancing at the naked man beside him as he quickly and efficiently scrubs the three day mud from his hair. Dugan’s washing his body off, and his hair and neck are still caked in the sludgy mud they’re all still wearing; but his moustache itself is surprisingly clean. He’s stood awkwardly, right leg stretched out away from the water, thigh wrapped in plastic to keep the bullet graze from getting wet. His leg is the first casualty of their live ammunition drills; and Steve had heard the sluice and splat as it tore though the skin when it happened next to him. Steve should have moved faster. The man takes a break from the scrubbing of his underarms to look at Steve - unselfconscious of his body. Dugan’s been in the Army seven years; and likely hasn’t showered alone for that same amount of time either.

“Gotta’ ask something man, it’s been bothering me since last week. I overheard you and your resident mother hen behind me on Friday.” He says, “Did you seriously let them test what would cut you and what wouldn’t?”

Steve stares at him for a moment. Eventually he replies, “Why are you asking me that? Did Bucky put you up to it?”

“_Bucky_,” Dugan says with emphasis, “is barely speaking to me right now, so no. I’m asking for me cause I want to know the truth. You never actually answered.”

Steve sighs, looking away and scrubbing at a particular spot on his forearm.

“Geez, Rodgers.” Dugan murmurs before he can actually say anything. “Really? How many--”

“It was one night. For one hour. And it was nothing, as I’ve told him - like Waters said most of them didn’t break the skin unless real force was used. Even then, they weren’t_ deep_. No scars.”

“That’s not the point man.”

“It needed to be tested,” Steve defends, “Waters asked and I agreed. No one did anything wrong. I said yes.”

“I think that’s where the problem lies - or where Barnes’ - and mine, does. How many times are you gonna’ keep saying yes?”

“It was one session.”

“Yeah, now. But if they ask again you’ve already done it once - so that’s that… and it doesn’t matter if you heal, man. I know you said no to that other thing before finding out Philips had canned the whole thing already, and you said you had a line the other day - but, if you ask my opinion, you might want to move the line.”

Steve can feel the defensiveness rising, but really, he hadn’t answered the question properly then or after because though he did say yes - there was something inherently uncomfortable standing there while someone tried to cut lines down his arm. They gave him anaesthesia, a large enough dose to work to numb the whole area so it didn’t hurt, not even a bit - but the action of it didn’t settle as easy as volunteering for Erksine’s trial did. It was different, this was more clinical- but it needed to be tested if they were ever going to work out how to replicate the serum again.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Alright,” he allows, “if you say so - I’m not gonna doubt it. I’m just saying; and you can ignore me if you want; I won’t take offence but - they might have got you this body Cap, but they didn’t get you over here in the here and now. You did that. You did it by being a swell guy and coming for all of us. You don’t owe them shit.”

“I owe them a little.” Steve says. He reminds himself that yes, it was him who made the decision to come for the prisoners; not the serum. He always tries to remember to check himself now. He’s getting better. “But I hear you. I told them it was a one off and I meant it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Serious - straight up.”

“Good man.” Dugan says, nodding in relief, “it might be good to say no in public though.” He adds after, thinking face on. “So everyone knows they’re abiding by it like they’re supposed to.”

“Why would I need to do that -” Steve says, eyebrow raised, “for your own peace of mind?”

“Not just mine - more; it might keep Barnes from being any more paranoid than he already is, is what I mean.”

“You think he’s paranoid?” Steve asks, feeling an uncomfortable twinge at the direction this has taken - but noting that he’s not the only one who’s noticed.

“He trusts us.” Dugan says, “but he doesn’t trust them - the administration at least. We don’t want him cracking--”

There’s a vague thud as someone drops a bar of soap - and when they turn Falsworth’s in the doorway with a deer in headlights look on his face. Somebody else disappears back through the doorway before the pair of them can get a glimpse.

Dugan winces, “Don’t tell me that was--”

“’Fraid so, mate.” Falsworth grimaces, leaning down to pick up the soap by his foot.

“Do you--”

“Think he heard you calling him paranoid behind his back? I’m gonna go with, yeah. Good luck getting back in his good books now, man.”

“Ah fuck,” Dugan curses, “and today was a good day and all.”

  
. . .

  
“What you heard earlier - Dugan didn’t mean--”

“Oh, you talk for Dugan now, do you?” Bucky bites back when Steve finds him first, after warning Dugan to give him space. It takes a total of one minute and one second from seeing him for Steve to break his own advice.

“No, of course not.” Steve says, as Bucky, still covered in a fair bit of mud ties his larger pack back up; but slings a smaller one with his rations over his shoulder. Steve frowns as he see’s it - _he’s not - he’s not leaving is he?_ “We weren’t even talking about you for most of--”

“Until you were.”

“For one second - it was an off-hand comment and not meant in that way. He was more telling me off for all the tests that have been going on - I thought you’d support that with how you’ve been.”

“_How I’ve been?_” Bucky asks, insulted and incredulous.

“No wait,” Steve winces, “that’s not what I meant, that came out wrong.”

“I know what you meant.” Bucky replies, standing from where he’s crouched, “and I know what he meant. I’m not gonna’ insult myself or you by pretending otherwise. And maybe I would support that if he wasn’t talking about me cracking up behind my back.”

“He didn’t mean it badly--”

“Right.” Bucky says, “same way he didn’t mean--” He bites his lip, shaking his head to wave off what was just about to come from them. _Didn’t mean what?_ Steve is about to ask, wondering if this is where the weird tension between the two has come from - _something that happened before this?_ He hasn’t been imagining that either. “How about we call you paranoid” he snaps instead, “and see how you take it?”

“Okay fair - I deserved that one.” He says, because that’s what Bucky wants to hear, and he did a little. They really didn’t mean it the way Bucky’s taking it though, they’re just worried, the both of them - and it was a really really bad choice of words. “Do you wanna just sit down and - where are you going?”

“For a walk. Alone.”

“Bucky, hang on!” He calls, twisting a hand in the strap of the bag. Without a sound Bucky drops it of his shoulder, twists and shoves one hand on Steve’s solar plexus. It’s not hard, but it’s enough to get Steve to loosen and drop the grip. 

“Don’t touch my stuff!” He snaps, “I’m going for a walk - I’ll shower later before Jackson comes to wake us up a three am to climb something. See you later.”

“Can we just talk about this? Or the stupid tests and data or - or anything you want to talk about.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m mad at you right now.” He turns to say, “and I want some space.”

“You always do this!” Steve suddenly exclaims. “You can’t just run away when things get hard.”

Bucky laughs. “Watch me.” Then he says, “Call me whatever you want, if that’s what you’re gonna do now, I can’t stop you - just like I can’t stop you from being an absolute airhead letting them do shit to you.”

“I’m not being an airhead,” Steve argues, “I’m just trying to do what’s right, and if letting them test what they want to test; under my consent and as long as I’m willing, is right - then that’s what I’m gonna do. And I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“That doesn’t surprise me!” Bucky turns to shout, still walking across the field away from the huts with Steve following him. “You never apologize for anything. You know what you also used to never to do?” He challenges, “Talk about me behind my back.”

Steve falters to a halt. While Bucky’s face is clear and his tone is even, the hurt is obvious in the words chosen. 

“And as for letting them test what they want to test,” Bucky raises one hand up and lowers it, like he’s going to point or shake it at Steve for emphasis, then changes his mind. “Who are you and what have you done with the guy who used tell people to go suck it when then told him what to do, huh? Guess things change.”

“Yeah…” He says, when Bucky’s walked off and out of hearing distance. “I guess they do.”

  
. . .

  
He’s got the rest of his life to ask himself that question. Who is he without the serum? Who is he with it now?

  
. . .

What else is even more perturbing than the serum hijackings is the unidentifiable - but not good - looks Bucky graces him with when he thinks he’s not looking to go along with the lack of familiar touching. He keeps making his brain push the logical facts: _he’s dealing with a lot, back off, this isn’t about you_ \- but the looks are to him and him alone. After a while it can’t help but feel a little personal and it’s hurtful, even if Bucky doesn’t mean it.

This started after they saw each other,_ after the serum_, when their relationship quite literally flipped itself on it’s head._ You’re still you_, Bucky has said more than once, but Steve’s not entirely sure if he believes his own words. Bucky has only ever known him as the friend unable to match the same limits as him, and now Steve can easily surpass him. Maybe that was the whole reason Bucky latched onto him for so long without realizing it; to make himself feel like a good person; helping the poor sick Irish kid who’d die young; the dark part of his mind thinks, and now that Bucky doesn’t need to offer his assistance anymore he’s done with him. It’s a thought he’s had before when he was young and insecure, and one he hasn’t let himself think about for a long time, and it’s not fair to Bucky who has stuck by him for so long…but it comes unbidden. Maybe he’s all mixed up with the mental stress he’s operating under; while trying to make sure the SSR doesn’t take advantage of Steve that it’s coming out all convoluted, and really he’s trying to let Steve down gently?

  
. . .

They’re going up in and out of a plane soon, which Steve has done once in a moment of desperate daring and the others have never done bar Monty - who finds it almost second-nature.

Morita is shitting it. Monty, the resident paratrooper, is gloating. This is not something that surprises Steve. The others are excited or nervous or resigned or simply too tired for it. Bucky seems a combination of the last two. Energies, attitudes and moods are high otherwise.

He didn’t leave, he didn’t abandon Steve and the boys; he just took a walk for an evening to cool off. No one had minded, and he was back before; as he rightly predicted; Jackson woke them up at three am with a surprise roll-call. He’d returned after dinner, when it was dull and dark; and Steve had spied him coming with his pack over one shoulder before disappearing into the shower block to finally wash the mud off him. There was slightly more mud caked on his trousers than before - operating on a perch in his future role as a sniper for a chunk of the last days-long exercise - he’d been the cleanest of all of them. He’d been gone for a while, so he’d likely, at some point, sat down somewhere to think.

Dugan went to rise after five minutes, but Gabe put a hand on his leg and murmured to him to leave it.

“You weren’t there, man.” Dugan said then.

“I wasn’t.” He agreed, “but I heard the argument after.” He'd glanced at Steve, then away again when he realized Steve had noticed. ”Leave it - you know how he is, he just needs to cool off.”

“He hasn’t been cooled off with me for weeks.” 

“_I know._ But just leave it. Now’s not the time - especially not cornering him in the shower. Just think man.”

Dugan sighed unhappily, and scooted closer to Jones. “I need to start thinking before I speak, that’s what I need to do.” If Steve’s hearing wasn’t as good as it was he’d have missed it when when the man said next, “I don’t like him being pissed at me.” _I know the feeling_, Steve remembers thinking. “I don’t like anyone being pissed at me. I liked it better when we were the three amigos.”

_I liked it better when we were the two amigos. What happened to us?_

“We’re the seven amigos now.” Jones had replied, patting his leg; and simply said louder, “You eaten?” when a shadow fell over Steve’s back. Steve had restrained a jerk of surprise, having not heard him approach -_ when did Bucky learn to move so quietly?_ \- before turning to glance at him as he dropped to the ground in clean clothes, clean shaven and with his teeth brushed.

“Yeah,” Bucky’d said, “ate while I walked.”

“Nice man, less cooking for Dernier then.”

“Why do you think I ate?” Bucky had quipped easily, shoulders slack and easy like nothing had happened; then easily dodged Dernier’s swat. His bag had been between his legs, but his grasp on it was less protective than usual.

“We good?” Steve had asked hopefully.

Bucky glanced at him, “Give me your chocolate bar tomorrow and we’ll see.” He’d said, which was a tentative yes.

It’s been a few days, and Bucky has cooled off and is acting as normal as he does now; mood like swings and roundabouts. He’s good with Steve, maybe even more than good; there’s certainly been a change, though he’s still quiet and detached from Dugan. Even so, it’s as though the misunderstanding and argument has unveiled conclusions for the both of them.

  
. . .

  
There’s no denying that Bucky latched onto Steve when they met, for whatever unknown reasoning the ten year old had, and there’s no denying that Steve latched on right back; his first and only friend for a long time. Bucky was the first child his age to ever be interested in him; yes_ him_, not some bizarre curiosity of the kid always made to stay out of schoolyard games. There’s no denying Steve tried to push Bucky away after his ma died, and predicting it, Bucky had said “no way, no how, pal. I’m with you ‘till the end of the line” and had forced himself further into Steve’s life in a way Steve hadn’t realized he’d needed. Then Steve had latched onto him, the only thing he had left without his mother, and that had been the way ever since - Bucky only allowing Steve to wallow in his grief long enough to be healthy, and then chasing him about before he overdid himself too much; always better liked and an easier fit with the rest of the world.

He’s not anymore, but Steve apparently is. There’s not much to latch them together anymore, so maybe Steve needs to create something to keep them together.

. . .

Peggy inexplicably appears at breakfast the next morning among the huts carrying dry toast and a cup of tea in a metal tin. Steve almost guffaws and chokes on his bitter coffee - Morita snorts next to him.

“Subtle, Cap.”

“Good morning.” Peggy greets.

The chorus of ma’ms all round the circle are almost in-sync, but tired. They’re only a little more comfortable around her now. Bucky catches her eye out of respect, then turns his face back down to his bowl. His stomach growls as he finishes his thick stogy oatmeal. Morita and Dernier had looked positively sick at the sight of it and stuck to a small breakfast of dried fruit bars and biscuits, and saved the rest of their ration for later. 

“Don’t know what I’m going to be able to keep down 1300 ft in the air.” Morita admits.

“It’s not that bad.” Falsworth tries to reassure.

“_You_ would say that.”

“It’s really not.” Steve adds on.

Peggy jumps in, “Try to make yourself laugh before you jump. It helps if you’re nervous." She then quotes, "‘Laughing in the face of fear will make fear run away in embarrassment.’”

Dugan chokes on a sausage. “You’ve been up before?”

She glances at Steve, “I’ve been out too, in German and Soviet airspace. Today’s jump will be almost relaxing considering.” Steve smiles into his spoon as Morita starts up again.

“I know you all think your helping, but you’re really not--”

“Like I said, try laughing. It’s only two miles up in the sky, and your only falling 5,000 feet every forty seconds; so get in the game, Corporal.” Peggy comments again, sitting back in her seat and sipping her tea innocently. “All you’ve got to do is pull a cord.”

“---And land within half a mile’s range.” Falsworth adds unhelpfully.

“---And not flatten yourself as a pancake by pulling too late.”

“---And look positively suave as you do it.” Bucky adds on.

Morita barks out an undignified laugh, “I’ve got to _jump_ first.”

“We could always push you.”

“_You._ You are not coming anywhere near me Dum Dum Dugan!”

“Guess you’ll have to keep both eyes open then.”

“I _swear to god_\--”

It goes back and forth for a while. Those two, since their rocky start, are now one of the closest pairs, bickering and chewing each other out like they’ve known each other since birth. It’s quite entertaining now the double-act has been declared. A young private in the staff walks into their area with a familiar canvas bag and everyone quietens because he’s the one who brings the mail.

Dugan, Jones, Bucky and Peggy (inexplicably, considering she must have only just turned up last night) receive them. She tucks hers away privately while Jones and Dugan rip theirs apart at the table. Jones has been getting letters from a sweetheart back home, whose letters have all been diverted to here and picked up significantly since his long silence while in Austria. _Good for him,_ Steve thinks, while Dugan reads out extracts of his elderly mother cursing him silly for worrying her. Again.

Bucky makes himself scarce with his_ two_ letters, disappearing through the door and up the stairs of the bathroom block.

“He does know we go up in the air in twenty minutes, right?” Falsworth counters at his back.

“He’ll be there.” Steve replies quietly, and pats Dernier on the back in sympathy at the continued lack of letters from his wife; trapped in their own country somewhere.

He says in French, that Steve’s been picking up steadily now since the first night. “She’s safe. I’d know it in my bones if she wasn’t. My little flower too.”

“Tu as une fille?” (“**You have a daughter?**”) Peggy asks.

“Oui. Amélie. Elle aura deux ans en février.” (“**Yes. Amélie. She will be two years in February.**”) Dernier replies proudly and pulls a simple drawing he slaved over from memory of a chubby cheeked baby girl from the pocket over his heart. It’s only in pencil, and the shadings only half there - but the man had done his best, and Dugan has admitted he can see Dernier’s eyes in the girls face. He’d lost the photograph his wife sent him when he was captured seven months ago, which had already been nearly a year old by then. He’s never met his daughter, but told Steve he almost felt the very moment she was born miles and miles away, and has loved her from the moment of his wife’s first morning sickness.

“She sounds amazing.” Steve had replied.

“Elle l’est.” (“**She is**.”)

Steve had wondered sometimes in the days following if his ma had loved his sickly self as much as Dernier loves the daughter he’s never set eyes on, and feels awfully stupid_, because of course she did._

He smiles at Peggy, confidence in speaking to her growing familiar. “How are you?”

  
. . . 

  
Peggy goes up in the plane with them, dressed in loose trousers and a responsible jacket - her hair tied back. Bucky arrives on time before Lieutenant Jackson, as Steve said he would. After receiving their parachutes and told to hustle on the plane, Morita cursing and shaking, Bucky taps him on the shoulder between Jackson’s instructions.

“Your love-bird sent you a letter in mine. I put it under your bed roll.”

“My--what?” Steve splutters, as Peggy subtly tries not to look like she’s listening.

“The future Mrs Becca Rodgers.”

“Oh my god,” Steve rolls his eyes, not needing to make himself cover Bucky’s insinuations with this particular subject of conversation. “_Shut up._ Just because your sister likes me more than you doesn’t mean I’m going to marry her.”

“Tell that to the three pages she wrote you to my two. Gods knows how she fit it in the envelope.”

“She has a fella’.” Steve reminds him.

“_Says you_.”

“Says her too, undoubtedly in her letter. What is she writing me three pages for?”

Bucky shrugs, buckling in. “How should I know, it’s your letter.”

“You mean you didn’t read it?”

“It’s illegal to read other people’s mail, Steve.” Bucky replies lightly.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Maybe I was too scared at what I’d find if I did. I don’t need to know your dirty secrets.”

Steve rolls his eyes again, “You’re a dramatic baby, you know that?”

“I’m not the one shacking up with a little girl.”

“She’s_ twenty_. And I’m not shacking up with your sister. You know it and I know it, so knock it off.” Bucky cants his shoulders, giving up the game finally. “I’ll read it when I get back. Who was your other letter from?” He asks quietly, glancing at Lieutenant Jackson. He’s still sorting out his own seatbelt.

“What?”

“You’re other letter. You got two.”

“Oh. From ma.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You’re writing your ma, now?” He blurts out before he can stop himself. “Since when?”

“Since I wanted to.” His friend rebuts snappily, giving him a withering look. “_She’s my ma_. Why wouldn’t I write her?”

_Good point,_ Steve thinks,_ for anyone who isn’t aware of the mess that is the older Barnes family._ Bucky, Becca and his mother haven’t seen eye to eye for years. It’s been like that for so long it’s a little disconcerting for that to have suddenly changed….except that Bucky almost died. Is it so strange for him to miss _his ma_ like Steve misses his own?

“No. Right.” He answers, stumbling over his words as the plane starts down the runway. He carries on quickly before the noise gets too loud. “It’s just--”

“Some arguments just aren’t worth the effort anymore.” Bucky finishes, and Steve feels more than see’s that there’s more to the statement than that.

He looks away and nods. He ventures, “How is she?”

“Okay. Worried.” Bucky answers after a while, once his ears have popped. “She misses me, and Becca. Pop’ too.”

Steve inwardly winces, imagining how that last note would have struck, but from Bucky’s face seems to have hit nowhere near as harshly as it once would have. Maybe forgiveness really is in the cards…there was a time (with Bucky and Becca) where he thought that was never going to happen. Bucky glances at him out of the corner of his eye, probably anticipating the reaction to the reaction.

“And how did that feel?” He can’t help but ask.

“Weird…but--nice, I guess. I mean, they were married for twenty-seven years so…”

_She also spent the last ten years of that marriage committing adultery in front of you, and then made you keep her secrets._ He thinks about Dernier’s love for his daughter, and then about the way Buck’s ma spent hours teaching him and all her children piano from before they could first read. He remembers the way she almost swung for Mrs O’Reilly after the woman made a comment about the length of Becca’s dress in the butchers shop. Despite her digressions and sometimes (definite) bad choices; that woman has always loved her children; brightly and fiercely - the way she does everything.

“...I’ve thought about her a lot, since I shipped out.” Bucky admits, “Like most guys do I imagine. And Becca’s never gonna’ get over herself and travel the ten miles to go see her, so one of us has to be the bigger person.”

_Maybe this is the moment to….?_

“She didn’t apologize this time though, that was different. She always normally tries to apologize or something every time I see her - I was kinda’ glad, honestly. We have other things to talk abou--”

“Right boys!” Jackson yells from the front.

_Dammit,_ Steve thinks.

“Out your seats, off your arses and in the sky. Get moving!”

  
. . .

Morita jumps, as do the rest of them - or more like - looses his footing and falls out the gap when Dugan moves closer too fast for his liking. They all pass the first jump and land within half-a-mile radius - even Morita, who scraps in seven meters away from the boundary. Monty only looks a little smug at landing on the first ring of the target they were supposed to be aiming for. Steve hits the fourth ring, after ever so slightly misjudging the maths in terms of his body weight vs. Travel speed, and opened his parachute a little early. Peggy hits the third, utterly comfortable; Bucky the fourth too on the other side. He’s scored on the sixth however (still admirable on his first try) after the wind catches his chute and he looses his footing, skidding in the dirt and cursing.

After all reconvening and being told, what, where and how they all went ever so slightly wrong, they pack away their chutes the way they were taught. They’re told the next time they’ll be timed, then given three folded maps, split into teams and told to find they’re way back to the estate in under four hours.

The maps are identical, except each one has a different starting mark in relation to the landing field, a two mile marked path to separate them, and reconvening mark in the middle of the forest at the intersecting over-flooded river.

Each team is to act as a solo unit; the others the enemy - up until the river, at which point; _‘if_’ they arrive within the same breadth they’re to join up - undoubtedly right on time for some sort of ambush. If one team arrives long before the others, it’s their choice whether to wait and risk missing the time-stamp or to continue on as a smaller, more vulnerable (but also more covert) unit without them. If they happen to encounter each other on their free-for-all march before the river - then it’s like their live-drills; so act accordingly.

Steve doesn’t particularly like the idea of shooting at his own men; but understands the teaching, of that and moving unseen. If they are seen and tagged, then they’re out.

He ends up on one of the teams of two, with Jones; while Dugan has Falsworth; and Morita has Bucky and Dernier. There’s several interesting choices in the chosen teams, and who’s assigned overall command of each. It’s obviously one of Vaughan’s designs, pitting them against each other; joining up two of Steve’s choices for seconds’ and flipping the traditional command structure round. He wonders what Vaughan’s looking for.

Dugan starts grinning gleefully and mockingly in Steve’s direction when Jones is assigned to him, because apparently, while the man can speak multiple languages, he can’t read a map to save his life. Dugan meanwhile has been hunting practically his whole life, Dernier has successfully maneuvered through enemy territory under cover countless times with ‘no maps’ when he was with the Resistance - while Steve, Bucky and Morita (before he was trained as a Ranger), before this war had rarely left the city.

They won’t be alone either - they’re following other teams of recruits on the same assignment an hour earlier, while the third batch of recruits will be loading up on the plane probably right at this very moment. It’ll be interesting; that’s for sure - even if it is, but also isn’t, a competition.

As soon as they hit the starting mark Jones immediately hands over the map to Steve, who takes it, but makes a point of trying to get Jones to at least try and suggest their first path, and tries to explain where he’s gotten mixed up when he looses his place. They’re supposed to be learning after-all.

Four miles in, when they’ve left the designated path and started working their way in, Steve stops Jones with a hand to the chest. They back up against a tree - as Steve and now Jones hear the winter leaves cracking beneath someone’s boots just ahead of them. It’s not any of their commandos, but a group of four recruits from the first plane - moving quietly, but not completely silently. Two of them have their heads together looking at their map and accompanying compass - obviously having gotten turned around somewhere.

Steve ducks down, motions for Jones to go round and slides his new shield from his back. They have guns loaded with non-lethal rounds (for once), but the point is stealth. Besides, he’s been practicing - and this shield of unfamiliar metal has _wicked balance and wicked bounce._

He twists round the tree and flings it at them. It strikes the tree above their heads on the curved edge and rebounds onto the next, clanging and vibrating down in their direction. They duck, suitably startled and suitably distracted, raise their guns; but Jones comes from nowhere and catches them from behind. Steve gets them from the side.

After they’re unarmed, and one knocked out, Jones and he tag them with red paint - and move on, choosing not to take them prisoner.

They encounter another group, tag them too, after which they slow and take a break. The last hour and a half they’ve been moving at Steve’s unrelenting pace - and he remembers once again that not everyone travels at his speed, and unless he wants to loose Jones he needs to cool off. 

It’s still strange, to be so easily ahead of someone when he used to struggle behind them.

There’s three planes worth of recruits on the ground now; the other units larger than theirs too, when they spot the third group from the third plane - five men who must be moving stubbornly fast considering, but not quietly. They’re jogging, and making incredible time but one of the metal clips from their parachutes is hanging out of one of the men’s kit - and it’s clanging against the zip with every bounce.

Steve raises an eyebrow at Jones, cants his head and starts to un-sling his shield again. He’s actually kind of enjoying this assignment, hadn’t even needed Jones on the second group. 

Forgetting for a moment that Jones is there, and maybe a little over confident, he gets ready to take this running group single-handed too. It’s not like it’d be hard.

Jones grabs his arm at the last moment and drags him down to a crouch sharply. Steve doesn’t loose his footing but a twig snaps beneath his boot, and the two of them hide behind a mount of dirt. The clanging stops for a moment as the group turn in their direction, looking. Steve twists to look at Jones in almost angry disbelief.

Jones shakes his head, finger on his lips and points just behind Steve’s back between a fallen log and another mound of overturned dirt.

Steve tenses, eyes widening. The jogging men are already a target - there’s a fourth group which Steve didn’t see.

They’re crawling along the ground unseen on their elbows, lining up their shots and position. Okay, so now they either have two targets - or they can turn off this path and let them deal with each other.

He and Jones are the smallest group, and so technically the most convert. The best decision would be to move forward without risking themselves while the fourth are distracted - _but they also have Steve._

It’s not much of an issue to take them both, even though they don’t need to.

Steve’s tempted anyway. Jones can tell he is.

“We should move on Cap, keep going to the river.”

Steve pulls a face.

“We don’t need to take out every unit in the forest. The goal is to make the time-stamp, and get past the river - over the bridge or under it. _The mission is to make the time-stamp_,” Jones repeats, whispering, the metal hook clangs again as the man twists. The fourth team are closer. “There was no mention that we needed to engage.”

_We could though. He could._

And these men are going to be tagged anyway with how much noise they were making, and the other team; well they were there, and Steve was here. 

_It wouldn’t even be hard_, his head whispers again.

“You go East and around, see if there’s a free path down to this stream. If I’m right; it’ll take us to the connection of the main river, right by the bridge.” He whispers back to Jones, wiping away dry twigs next to him so Jones can move without making a sound.

“What about you?”

Steve looks at the fourth group on their elbows, and listens with his left, formally bad ear, as the third group’s commander notions for them to continue.

“Cap--” Jones starts to warn.

“Go around.” He whispers again, not a suggestion this time - and does his thing.

He doesn’t use the shield as a distraction. Instead he uses it to slice right through a branch above the fourth group as he runs for the third.

Jones swears behind him. The men on their elbows also do, and one gun discharges when a man sharply pulls back as the branch falls right in front of him. He catches the shield as it rebounds, leaping, and shoves against the recruits from the third group. He watches his strength and dials down his hits, but apart from the accidental discharge, he works in near silence.

He turns to the fourth group who have just recovered.

A almost quiet crack echoes across the forest.

A bullet spears against his shield; and pings off sharply. He doesn't feel the impact through the metal but knows what just - _shit shit shit - what?_

_Crack._ He twists sharply and the second shot misses, ducks to try to get cover - there isn't any - _where the hell is that coming from, where's the muzzle flash?_ The fourth group is up. He dodges a third - _crack_ \- he's out in open space - free pickings. One thought goes through his head: _run_. For the first time in his life: he does. He takes off in the direction he sent Jones, following the faint sound of running water. He hears a very faint splash as Jones verges the small river bed and then he's with him again; ducked down and invisible. He holds up a hand but the man is already silent; and they stay stationary for a moment; listening to cracks of gunfire and the fighting. Several there have just been tagged, that he knows for sure. He nearly was - shit, he's not the one who's supposed to get tagged - he's supposed to be _better--_

"We need to move on." He says to Jones, "get out of the area before more are drawn in - get to the bridge." They stay silent and solitary for the next hour; and Steve - he knows he screwed up - he _knows._ When they reach the precarious rope bridge from below it where they followed the connecting river; it's suspiciously quiet - but Steve knows there's a trap waiting somewhere. The ground and river bank is too turned up otherwise and in the shallower gentler areas of water there's bullet shells mixed in with the river stones.

"Should we carry on?" Jones requests.

"No - lets," he checks his watch, chest still feeling hollow, "lets wait ten minutes, just in case."

They wait ten minutes - and at nine Morita's group appears; so they call it and join up just with them - and hightail it across the river under Steve's orders; dodging, manoeuvring and fighting as the Achnberry home troops fire at them; and shells explode ; sending up sprays and sprays of water to blind them. Dernier is knocked off the bridge; and Steve tries to catch him, but before he can the guy's swinging off the bottom like a monkey and ends up under better cover than the rest of them. When they finish they're the third group - group one is from the very first plane, group two is Dugan and Falsworth; the former grinning at them in success. All the main training officers are there, including Vaughan, including Peggy - along with over a dozen tagged men - clothes smeared in red paint. They move out onto the next exercise. There's no red paint on Steve - but there should be.

. . .

Today was the first training exercise since the serum he’s inadvertently failed; he knows it, Jones knows it and probably Vaughan knows it; he seems to know everything in this estate. He made the time-stamp, made the right choice in waiting for half his team, and made it over the rushing river while live ammunition flew over his head but he still failed.

In Basic, he started and for the most part finished on his own. Any man that wasn’t put off by his size or prejudgement Steve put off himself with his narrow-eyed focus on his strategy books, evening recovery, and pure stubbornness. Through every simulation, every exercise he climbed and ran and very narrowly accomplished he did on his own back because if he was going to struggle he would struggle on his own. He’d do it alone so no one could claim credit for the accomplishment but him.

He’s not struggling anymore, but obviously, some part of him is still going it alone.

Just because he can - doesn’t mean he _should_, and he doesn't know where today that he lost that. Or maybe he does - high off adrenaline and arrogance that comes with changes to all of him.

Dugan and Falsworth facilitated each others advantages and made great time, while Bucky’s team worked and kept themselves together the entire way; and were commended for what Jackson and the other Lieutenants witnessed - which is more than he can say for himself. He botched it, plain and simple.

He supposes at least it happened here, and not on the front lines. It doesn’t make him feel that much better, but it’s something. He’s obviously not as ready as he thought he was. He apologizes to Jones for his recklessness - and promises he sees where the fault was (and is) and that it won’t happen again. He’s not exactly sure how the man takes it considering as far as he and the rest of them are concerned they passed, so he supposes it doesn’t matter but…

Even after, the upset must still be on his face when he excuses himself from dinner. Bucky follows him into his hut, plopping down.

“Okay, spill.”

Steve returns the letter Bucky stashed under his bedroll back to it’s place. “It’s nothing.” He waves off.

“Oh yeah? That mug on you is saying otherwise.” Steve looks at him flatly. Bucky continues, “The last time I saw that look on your face was the second time you came home with a 4F after lyin’ on your forms and tried to stay quiet about it. The time before was when you almost got yourself arrested at one of those wacko protests you used to go to--”

“They’re not--wacko protests--” Steve argues immediately. “You should know that too, considering you’re one of the working class, you mook.”

“Okay fine. Whatever.” Bucky holds his hands up. He’s been in a particularly talkative mood compared to this morning when Peggy first showed up. He thinks it might be to do with his ma’s letter. “My point is, you only have this,” he waves at Steve’s entire face, “on when you’ve done something you shouldn’t and know it or are mighty disappointed in yourself. So spill.”

“You haven’t spilled.” He grumbles peevishly under his breath, quiet enough that Bucky can’t hear him. His friend clears his throat at the non-committal reply.

“It’s nothing.” Steve repeats, “just a bad day, I guess.”

Bucky leans back on his hands - he hasn’t bothered to take his wool cap off after finishing, so it’s half ridden over his mussed hair. His friend seems to decide to wait him out. Steve doesn’t particularly feel like budging right now - but at the same time could appreciate some advice, _maybe_, but that would mean admitting to his absolute lunacy today which is never something he likes to do.

“This isn’t about the bullets pinging off your shield in the woods today is it?”

Steve’s head snaps up. Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“How do you---” Steve cuts himself off, realization dawning. “It was _you_. Wasn’t it?”

Then indignation burns.

_“You shot me?!”_

“I shot _at_ your bulletproof shield, technically.”

Steve blusters, “No technically about it-- _you shot at me!_”

“You were being _dumb_ and you _exposed yourself_ for no reason, and were going to get properly tagged by another group if _someone_ didn’t curb your stupidity before you got too ahead of yourself. Besides, they were dummy rounds - even if I had hit you, which I _didn’t_, you would have been fine.”

They stare at each other for a long time. Steve’s the first to look away.

“It really was stupid, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky agrees. “Mostly it was unnecessary. You were the smaller unit, you were actually on your feet and weren’t making an absolute racket like that other group. You could have easily snuck around them and continued with them none-the-wiser. Made better time too.”

“I know.” Steve admits. “I knew then. That’s exactly what I sent Jones to do.”

“I know.” Bucky repeats his words, “I saw that too.”

“But I didn’t. I split us up so I could take out both teams on my own because I could. I just, for a moment, it didn’t matter whether I _should_ only that I _could._ And then my pal_ who I didn’t see at all_ shot clean at me. If that had been real, and it hadn’t been you, I’d be dead.”

“You dodged the second and the third.” Bucky makes note of. “You’re fast. Really fast.”

Steve shakes his head, huffing. “That doesn’t make me feel any better Buck.”

He starts picking at the edges of his sleeves the same way he used to in school when he was called on and didn’t know the answer because he’d been off sick when everyone else learnt it. He always used to feel so dumb then too, because everyone would know the stupid, easy answer but him. Bucky, from his desk, used to turn around and try and mouth the answers at him; but he was only ever as good at lip-reading as his hearing was to begin with.

“I was up on that hill for three or four minutes before you under cover,” Bucky says, “that team on their hands and knees had been following us for two miles before we managed to loose them. So we made a fake track while we went round the side and changed route. They were already on my radar and then so were those clanking blusterers. I saw them and heard the others well before they got close - you know who I didn’t see or hear?”

Steve looks up at him.

“_You._ I had no idea you were there until I caught the corner of the shield round the side of a tree - _only_ because the sun happened to catch it and _only_ because you were a moment away from throwing it.

I had _no clue_ you were anywhere in that area, and we’d switched and circled all over there by then. Not until the branch snapped when Jones pulled you down. And even then, if I hadn’t seen the shield a millisecond before I wouldn’t have known then either. The two other groups didn’t clock you, did they? I moved round in the end to get a glimpse of you to be sure…”

“No.” Steve mumbles, but it’s a stubbornly insecure no he hates himself a little for.

“You’re good, Steve.” Bucky says. “You were_ really good_.”

“Until I broke cover.”

“Until you broke cover.” Bucky concedes, “It happened once, and it lasted a total of forty-five seconds, and from the face you’ve had on you ever since I’d say you’ve learnt your lesson, wouldn’t you?”

Steve sighs, “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not.” Steve snaps. “I knew the best choice was not to engage - Gabe was telling me exactly that too. I knew it, Buck, but I didn’t listen. It wasn’t even like it was a gut feeling, it was just…_I don’t even know what happened." _He rubs a hand against his head, shaking it and looking down. "What if…what if something like that happens again?”

“What? You not listening to your head? That’s hardly new.”

Steve glares at him; this is not the time for jokes.

“Sorry.” Bucky repents immediately. “Okay...so you had a little trouble with impulse control today, whether it was the serum or not it doesn’t matter, and I’m guessing here; that you were feeling a little invincible after all the stunts you’ve been pulling for the last month.”

“Yeah.” Steve allows. “Maybe…”

“That means yes.” His friend counters instantly. “The thing is you know that now, so you can regulate it.”

“What if I can’t? What if I’m not--I’m not ready to lead this unit?”

“You are.”

“But _how do you know that_?” Steve stresses.

“Because you knew what the right call was already, you said it yourself. You’ve just got to learn to listen to yourself and not those big burly muscles…Steve.” Bucky calls, stilling his hands on his sleeves when Steve won’t look at him. “You’re ready. Trust me, I should know. You’ve been bossing me around for close to fifteen years.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but there’s little effort in it. “I have not.”

Bucky grins at him until he gives him a small smile back. Bucky’s smile dims and he licks his lips. “You’re ready Steve,” he repeats, “but…don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to start trusting the guys. You’re not on your own anymore.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Really?” Bucky counters right back, “Because this isn’t a new thing. You’ve always fought like you’re a one-man-army Steve, even when you’ve been getting punched in the face while I’ve been right next to you. You’re---you’re probably only just noticing now people have stopped hitting you back. You fight like…”

Bucky trails off, either unable to find the words or not wanting to voice them out of fear of Steve’s reaction.

“Like what?” Steve prompts gently. “Like what, Buck? What were you gonna’ say?”

Bucky sighs through his nose. “You fight like no one’s going to be there to have your back, and when they are, you’re pissed at them for tryin' to help. Like they’re deliberately only doing it to make you feel like you can’t, or to get something from you in return later. You’d rather not give them the option at all, so you isolate yourself or send them off so you can do it alone.”

Steve takes that in. That’s exactly what he did to Gabe today, and when he thinks about it, has done to Bucky too - countless times.

“And you could and would do it before, no one’s saying that you couldn’t (_maybe not you,_ Steve thinks), but now you…now you’re like_ this_ and more confident; you _know_ you don’t need them - and maybe you don’t anymore…” Bucky trails off, looking away. Steve frowns at that. His friend continues, “But that doesn’t mean they’re--_we’re_ not there. We’ve got your back Steve, but we also have to feel like you’ve got ours when it comes down to it. You’ve got to start working as a team. We’re a commando unit, not ‘Steve Rodgers and those other guys’. You can’t isolate yourself from that too.”

Steve nods, “We’re a team. Not a one-man army.” He repeats Bucky this time.

His friend clicks at him, grinning again.

“Exactly. See? Now will you cheer up?” He says, and promptly punches Steve in the arm. “Your girl is here - you think she wants to see you looking like a depressed horse. You gotta’ be careful, she might think it’s her.”

Steve laughs quietly, “I hardly think she car--”

“She cares.” Bucky interrupts. “If you can’t see that then maybe Erksine’s serum didn’t fix your eyes like you all thought it did. _Go_.”

Steve rolls his eyes and stands to go. “Don’t read my mail.” He can’t help but admonish as he tucks the corner of Becca’s letter all the way under his pillow. He adds, “And Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” He says, really meaning it. “Even if you sometimes think you can’t find the words, you still always know what to say.”

Bucky smiles at him and shrugs, like the philosophy comes as naturally as breathing. 

(As Steve leaves the tent, suitably shaken out of his mood, he doesn’t see Bucky’s smile drop, or realize how long he stays sat in Steve’s tent alone.)

. . .

It broke the law; but the rescue of the war prisoners from Krausberg was the ‘right’ thing to do - so he did it.

There wasn’t a shade of grey in at decision, but _Steve_ made it; not the serum. He knows that because while it was a gut decision - it was _definitely_ him - _and how does he know that?_ Because he didn’t do it for the greater good. He wasn’t going to leave those men there but the gut decision to go wasn’t for those men. It was for Bucky. It was selfish and self-centred and insane but most of all that decision was unequivocally _his._

It’s not a decision he has to doubt, and even if it was the serum responsible - he wouldn’t care.

Who is he without the serum? The more appropriate question: who is he without his best friend? He doesn’t know, but he does know he’s a better man with him that without him and it’s an insult to the both of them to think otherwise.

_Who is he without the serum_, he asks himself again. _He’s the guy who stormed a base alone just to bring his best friend home. That’s who._

. . .

He squints through the scope at the target, frowning, finger cramped, on his second hour of shooting in their recreational time. 

“Pulling the trigger,” he says, “is almost like a prayer sometimes. Feels like that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Of course it is to you. It’s not supposed to be a prayer - it’s supposed to be certainty your going to hit your target.”

Steve gasps, mock offended. “Are you saying I’m not good?” Because he’s alright, and knows he’s alright - and he’s been getting better since Bucky walked past his spot when they were shooting from their feet a few days ago, kicked his feet wider; and jabbed a hand into his back to correct his posture whilst on his way to his own spot. Jackson was right by afterwards and corrected the rest of his hold on the actual rifle so he’d have a more steady shot - and there was a lot less corrections and advice than there would have been. He hadn’t even realized he’d been stood wrong. He found it strange for a second, when without hesitation Jackson began physically manoeuvring his elbow and body. The training Sergeants in Basic had never really bothered, focusing on the more bodily abled soldiers, with not much belief in him outside of screaming “Rodgers!” every time he was left behind. 

Peggy herself was the only one who actually made a point of teaching him something and it’s through her that he learned how to properly do a sit up and how to reload a sidearm after he’d been skipped over on the instruction. Her hand had corrected the level of his shoulders too - pressing into the muscles until they were even on both sides when they were rifle-shooting over sand bags and said: “Exhale when you pull the trigger. The more tense you are the more likely the shot will go wide.”

“No.” Bucky says in return, “I’m just saying, unlike the rest of you the serum ain’t got you shootin’ any straighter. That’s just on you.”

Steve scrunches his face, not sure what to make of that comment -_ should he be offended?_ He’s not everything the serum made him - _he’s not only capable because of it,_ he thinks, stomach clenching in hurt.

“That’s not what I meant.” Bucky says airily with exasperation.

“What?”

“You know what.” Bucky replies, both eyebrows raised like he can see right through him. “Go again.”

His friend steps back as Steve resettles against the cheek guard, Bucky covering his ears sans ear muffs, having come across Steve on his way back from the shower block. His hairs still damp, stuck floppy to his forehead. It’ll dry fluffy, Steve knows. He takes another shot - it’s better again this time.

Bucky nods, considering, looking at the long range target and then the shorter range sheets in a pile perched on a hay pile next to him. The holes are a closer collection around the bullseye. He comments, not unkindly. “Better. But you may be one of those that has to rely on luck with the longer shots.”

“Good thing I’m lucky then.” Steve calls, firing out another. He’s always relied on luck - and in terms of injuries fighting-wise it hasn’t turned on him yet. Sickness wise not so much - but he can’t get sick anymore so he’s got a Hail Mary there now. He suddenly decides for some reason…”And I don’t have to rely on luck - I’ll rely on you.”

“Ha ha.” Bucky says modestly, “that’s real nice of you to say - that doesn’t mean you can stop practising though. Go again.”

. . .

  
The next morning after an evening of talking to Peggy Steve’s watching the tail end of a boxing match between Jones and Morita following their unarmed combat instruction in the rain. They’re indoors now at least, and this is supposedly an hour of recreational time, but the commandos are still being observed by Jackson _and Vaughan_ this time. This morning, for the first real time Steve thinks, Vaughan is eyeing Bucky with approval as he expertly but obliviously unwraps his knuckles. His friend has just come off six wins in a row in the ring, the last with a knockout punch thirty seconds in, and he outshone everyone in this morning’s instruction.

According to his file from Wisconsin, which Steve has now read, he excelled in close quarters combat and long range weaponry then too. He still has dark circles under his eyes, but over the last week has perked up a little in attitude and competency in training. The officers have noticed, to Steve’s immense pride, and are finally taking him seriously. After their talk, Steve doesn’t think there should even be another option for a second. Who better to back him up than the guy who apparently knows him better than himself?

Peggy appears from behind him, and asks to speak to him privately.

“What’s going on?” He asks, once she has closed the door of the office they’ve given her to work in.

She tells him to sit, and goes round her desk. After unlocking the drawer and pulling out a manila file stamped as a copy, she perches on the front of the desk and hands it to him.

“This is confidential, and isn’t to leave this room…but I thought you’d like to know.” 

_What is this_, he’s about to ask, as aside from the stamp the folder is blank on the front. 

Before he can she informs: “His blood work. It came back inconclusive.”

Steve’s hand tenses over the file, looks up then down before he opens it. There’s photos of a shirtless Bucky in nothing but his briefs staring at him, dated seventeen days ago. His body’s bruised and thin, stomach still a little sunken, collarbone evident, with a thick scar marred down his stomach. There’s spots here and there that look like healing burns, worse than the cigarette ones he already knew about that Bucky insisted he'd treat himself after Steve arrived with a bottle of iodine the day after they landed in Surrey.

“Inconclusive?” He echoes, flicking through them. There’s only one photo where Bucky’s looking at the camera, in all the others he’s looking away or to the side; and to Steve looking overwhelmingly upset.

He turns them picture-down on the desk, having seen enough of the lingering brown and blue bruises on his bare thighs, elbows and side. He doesn’t need to look any closer so instead focuses on the paperwork and tables of results. He’s seen a similar layout from his own blood work.

“He’s AB positive, and iron deficient, but otherwise is perfectly ordinary.” Peggy says, then points at a number halfway down the table. “There was a small flare up here, but not a large enough one to merit hospitalization.”

“That’s the venereal disease section.”

“Yes, Steve. But can be treated with a Prophytatic Pocket.”

Steve blinks, a little embarrassed for Bucky, but mostly…inwardly confused.

“That’s it though? Nothi--”

“We ran every test - and compared them to yours and Erksine’s notes. None of the numbers are close. Like I said--”

“Perfectly ordinary.” Steve interrupts, repeating her words, feeling something unravel in his chest. Because here’s the evidence - he was wrong. Despite _‘Zola’s_’ (he thinks of the name in disgust) best efforts, he hasn’t replicated the serum. It would have shown up in the blood.

Steve hasn’t felt relief like this since Bucky first recognized him.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Here's the next chapter in Steve's POV and written to show Steve's thought-process as he comes to terms with his future as 'Captain America' and his future with everything else too. It's my opinion and headcanon that the SSR wouldn't have just sent them all out right off the bat as a specialised unit before actually being trained as a specialised unit - and as expressed in the previous chapter they need to make sure Steve's got the knowledge not to get everyone killed. As you can tell now you're at the end he went through quite a rollercoaster this chapter; but ultimately ended on a good note in his confidence and with Bucky.
> 
> I've been playing around a lot with condensing the Scotland/Training chapters into just two; last weeks and this weeks; to move on to the Howler missions as I know that's what your all waiting for, but I'm notoriously terrible at cutting down my writing; chapters and essays - and I found there was A LOT that I wanted to express about Bucky and Steve's head-spaces and learning curves BEFORE they depart off over the channel again. On the Brightside I feel like they're all still fairly emotional chapters to break your hearts a little more - and so after this chapter there will be one more Scotland-based chapter in Bucky POV next week and then they'll be on the European Front again. Think three weeks training = three chapters.
> 
> And the ending...? Very interesting? Any guesses relating to that, one of you commenters from last chapter noticed something related without realising - but I won't tell you who!
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> COMMANDO TRAINING REFERENCES : As mentioned in the last chapter all the explanations of training are based on real courses and people. Here's a very interesting explanation of commando training if you would like to look. VIDEO: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F11UABufuos
> 
> TYPES OF GUN  
LEE ENFIELD (BRITISH RIFLE - Estimated range 550 yards )
> 
> SPRINGFIELD (AMERICAN RIFLE - Estimated range +1000yards. High quality manufacture and design, using forged and machined steel, heat treated, polished parts. The US didn’t have a scope comparable to the German’s Zeiss optics, and this was probably its main limitation. The accuracy is very good, the trigger is very good and breaks cleanly. It is a very nice rifle to shoot, especially with match ammo. Compared to the K98k, I’d say this is the better long-range rifle, but overall it comes in a very close second as a sniper rifle. )
> 
> MAUSER Karabiner 98k (GERMAN MADE - Estimated range = 550 yards. Generally known as the best rifle of it's time, with excellent optics (scopes) and is the most popular rifle of it's era and after.)
> 
> MOSIN-NAGANT M1891/30 - (RUSSIAN/FINNISH MADE. Estimated range = 550 yards. Most people see this as not a very nice rifle to shoot, regarding various issues - but interestingly enough nearly every single famous WW2 sniper (German and Russian/Finnish mainly, as the West Allies generally didn't have sniper units being on the offensive instead of defensive - just mainly had a single rifleman in a unit itself.) used a Mosin-Nagant. The reason for this is these rifles are very particular and are often customised heavily per sniper.
> 
> Japanese Insults/ Racial Slurs at the start of the chapter:  
NIP - Shortened version of Nipponese(the former name for the Japanese.  
BUTTERHEAD - Used by U.S. Marines in the Pacific Theater of WWII, and some survivors of it to this day. Refers to yellow skin tone of Japanese soldiers. Expression appears in some U.S. movies made during the war.  
JANK - Japanese living in America, Jap + yankee = Jank  
NIPONESE - Used instead of 'Japanese.'  
CRACKER JAP - A person of mixed Japanese/Caucasian descent  
CHEESE NIP - White/Japanese. Mix of Cracker and Nip
> 
> MICK - Slur against the Irish  
PS: SORRY FOR ALL OF THOSE!


	20. PART 12 (c.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he was a shell before, he’ll be shattered into dust if Steve leaves him too; so he’ll have to make sure he doesn’t. Simple as. And if it comes down to it, as awful as it sounds, he’ll have to leave Steve before Steve can leave him.

WARNING: There is mention of one period-typical homophobic slur in this chapter. In no way do I condone language such as this. 

. . .

BUCKY

  
He finds he likes reading his ma’s letter.

Over and over again he reads it, normally in the very early mornings when the sun lights up the canvas of his hut and the others are sleeping, or have already been roused, and it brings him a level of peace he wouldn’t have found otherwise.

It’s not like she says anything particularly profound in her letter to resonate with him so but he’s read it so often now he can recite every word by heart. He doesn’t need to read it to hear her words, but he also likes looking at the swirl of her cursive.

It’s rough and ready - like her, having only really learnt to write in her twenties when he did - and her G’s always look like J’s and B’s and P’s for someone who hasn’t spent his entire life distinguishing them on sheet music when he used to play off letters instead of notes. And when he couldn’t; he used to play the notes in sequence after one another to figure it out. Her Treble Clefs always used to look like dollar signs too, and when he asked her why she used to blag and say she drew them like that because all music revolves around the Treble Clef the same way the world does around money. His ma has always been one for metaphorical double meanings and the very thought of it is enough to send a wave of _something_ through him.

He decides in his next letter he's going to find some way to trick her into drawing a Clef for him. He’ll figure it out when he figures out the words he wants to write back - which he still hasn’t got a complete grasp on now.

There’s a lot.

“Buck? You awake?”

He lifts his head up, and tucks the letter back safe.

“Yeah. I’m up. Be there in a minute.” He calls through the closed flap and at the hovering shadow. Steve’s been giving him strange looks for the last few days - not particularly bad looks - but - strange. He thought at first it was from him perking up properly - _finally_, the rest are probably thinking - since last week when he finally managed to ditch the paranoid weight hovering over him. Or after their talk, like maybe he’s finally realized Bucky’s not as oblivious to his old ‘skinny’ feelings as he once thought - but he doesn’t think it’s that either.

The guys are shooting the shit as per usual, and Morita’s trying to convince Dugan to give him a back rub to loosen the aching knots in his shoulders. It’s not going well.

“Oh come on. It’s not hurting yeh’, no one’s gonna’ say anything. It’s a back rub, not a fag’s rub.” Morita says, trying to look convincing.

Bucky’s hand tightens exponentially on the spoon as he dollops porridge in his bowl. Steve’s trying not to pull a face - he likes that word even less than the word fairy - having been called both over the years.

“Out of the two of us I’m the one who needs it the most.” Dugan says, then sees him emerge. “Jimmy-boy!---”

“It’s Bucky.” He argues to pointless avail. At least he’s not calling him James.

“--Now you’re up, how would you like to--”

“No.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because you have knots onto knots on-top of knots, I’d never finish if I started. Plus, I’d rather not get any closer to the source of the smell I’m already getting a whiff of over here. And because, generally, _no_.”

“Les noeuds construisent le caractère” Dernier adds on and those that can fully understand - Steve, Jones and Bucky - chuckle.

“---What did he just---”

“Knots build character.” Jones translates for those that are a little slower in learning the language of their companion.

“Oh fuck off, Frenchie. Would you want to--”

“Non. Not e’ chance.”

Steve finishes scraping off the last of his oatmeal and subtly motions to a tin can of extra powered milk he’s commandeered and is hiding behind his foot for Bucky from the rest of them; knowing he can’t take his coffee bitter and dark. Bucky grins at him and quickly dumps the extra share in his steaming cup until it turns a lighter, and more satisfyingly milky shade before the others notice.

“No sugar m’ afraid.” Steve says out of the side of his mouth, “That’s as close to sweet as I can get for your sweet-tooth, Sweet Stuff.”

Bucky snorts quietly at the teasing. It’s been a running joke for four years, and a favourite of Steve’s after he heard his old gal’ Dot call him it, foxy and saucy-like, as she slyly poured a fourth sugar in his diner coffee. After they’d called it quits, and their double-diner-dates turned into platonic Steve-and-Bucky diner-dates, Steve would greet him at the table with a handful of sugar packets straight to the face and a “Mornin’ Sweet Stuff.” He found it so funny he started doing it at home too when they’d moved in together, and once arrived back with the groceries while Bucky was stretched out on the couch after work, asked “Good day, Sweet Stuff?” and threw a full 5lb bag of sugar at his head. Bucky was ready the next time, and ducked. Three days later, as payback for foiling a perfectly good throw, Steve poured half a bag over him when he was asleep in bed in an ridiculous - but funny - waste of perfectly good sugar, and couldn’t even get his snappy one-liner out because he was laughing so much. 

His father had sighed with a combination of absolute resignation and frustrated disappointment when he’d shown up to Sunday service, cheek blue, eye swollen, eyebrow bruised, and gone: “I thought we were giving the fighting a rest outside the ring, you little hooligan? Who the hell have you hit now?”

“No one.” He’d grumbled moodily, arms crossed while Steve practically shook beside him.

“I notice you’re not black and blue for once, Steve. Normally you’re at least slightly involved.” His father had added suspiciously, noticing the laughter.

Steve had schooled his face as best he could. “Oh I wasn’t involved in this one.” He said to Bucky’s sarcastic scoff. “It was wasn’t a long fight, sir. The opponent was a little on the sugary sweet side, and Buck gave in pretty quickly. It was almost _tooth-rotting._”

Bucky had shoved Steve into a pew, which hadn’t gotten him a nice look from the priest or anyone else who took the church service seriously.

“_Good_. Might save me a black eye and itchy underpants then.” He throws out.

Steve laughs, grinning back at him. 

Bucky claps to their entire commando unit, “So, what’s the plan for today?”

. . .

They’re rock climbing - or more like cliff scaling - so heaving themselves up a ninety degree rockface again today. They’ve got all the fancy mountaineering footwork down, and the stamina - so now just have to improve their speed. No one’s come close to Steve’s pace yet; who clambers over things at the same speed he used to loose his temper - so lightening quick. If this were the Olympics and not war he’s be drowning in gold - no silver or bronze in sight. They only have about four days left in their training, and then some kind of final test - some kind of practice beach landing. They’ll be live ammunition there too, of course.

Steve hangs back, and then hangs him back whilst the rest of the men walk up the hill past the faux trenches dug into the ground to fall in at the front of the castle.

“What?” He asks.

Steve glances at the others stomping ahead of them until he judges they’re far enough.

“This is for you.” He answers, and hands Bucky a brown packet with black words printed on the front. It’s a little crinkled at the corners, just bigger than his hand and twice as deep. It has a list of the contents on the front and is labeled from the U.S Pat Office. It’s item number 9118000 and was printed in Chicago.

Bucky takes it in his hand, utterly confused.

“Okay….this is a prophylactic packet. Why are you giving me a prophylactic packet?”

“Um.” Steve mutters, “well…”

“Well what?”

Steve looks at the men halfway up the hill again, then at Bucky’s forehead instead of his eyes awkwardly. “We got your blood work back from - well, you know.”

Steve avoids saying ‘physical’ or ‘interview’ or ‘debrief’. Probably for his sake when he abruptly looks away at the thought, heart suddenly pounding. ‘Physical’, ‘interview’, ‘debrief’ - Bucky would more call it ‘interrogation or ‘the time the Allies betrayed him with a camera, two vials but five needles.’

He feels like all of his joints have had concrete poured over them and have been locked into place - ramrod straight, and he wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his cargo pants. Here it is. Here it is -_ he’s not going to let them take---_

“It was clear.”

Bucky’s eyes jerk up with his neck, and something twinges where the muscle meets the vein running up the side of it.

Steve’s still looking awkward, but there’s also happy relief in his eyes if not in his embarrassed body. “All clear,” he repeats, “of everything in terms of chemicals and serum anyway.”

Bucky nods, letting out a quiet calming breath. “Right…yeah. Good. That’s good. Really good, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, no it’s great - it means we were worried for nothing - Hydra hasn’t created or adapted their own working serum. That would have been--”

“Bad. Really bad.” Bucky finishes dumbly for him, face straight.

Steve huffs his agreement at the simple, childish, but ultimately correct assessment with much more silent insight than Bucky, who compared to Steve is still rather ignorant on the whole matter. “But like I said, your blood was clear - no markers like the ones that turn up in my blood - or other suggested ones in Doctor Erksine’s old notes--”

“So we’re good. It’s over.” Bucky cuts him off, starting up the hill so they aren’t late; but also to finish the conversation quickly. _And we never have to talk about this again._

“Urgh yeah - wait, Buck--”

Six steps in he remembers the packet he still has in his hand. He stops again right before Steve catches his shoulder to stop him.

“Wait…that doesn’t explain why you’ve given me--”

“Your blood was clear of any kind of serum markers and that, but um--” Steve looks very awkward again, “well - it did show - that - well - it showed that -- you have gonnarhea.”

Steve fires the words out so fast Bucky has to blink a couple of times to make sure he’s heard him right.

“I have gonnarhea.” He repeats, almost flatly.

“Um yes. But with medical developments and that--”

“I have gonnarhea.” He says again.

Steve huffs and glances at the men up the hill; there’s not a chance any of them can hear a whisper of their words from here. He very much looks like he wants to finish this conversation like Bucky did earlier. He probably shouldn’t have started it then. “Yes…You probably caught it--no never mind, I don’t want to know where you might have caught it, that’s your business, but with medical developments this year you don’t need to be hospitalized or quarantined or anything. Just--follow the instructions on the packet and you know--it’ll get rid--you’ll be in the all clear completely.”

Bucky blinks again at the jumble of words with a thought that any other time he’d probably be laughing at Steve’s obvious embarrassment - and it’s not even him who has it. You’d need to have sex to have it for one - so Steve’s the one who’s all clear on that front - _or_, he thinks, _be directly injected with it by a neurotic psychopathic doctor deep in Nazi territory._ Though that's not what this is. He looks down at the packet and turns it over in his hands. He hasn’t done anything of the sort since he came back from Austria, or even really since he shipped out, except….

“You can keep it in your kit, it’s pretty small so shouldn’t be a problem.” Steve continues, “and you don’t have to worry about your record or file or anything official. It hasn’t been reported to the brass or in any official consenus, the only people who know are Agent Carter, me, you and the higher ups in the SSR. And they don’t - or won’t care about that - just about the missing blood markers. The packet is just between us.”

“Right.” Bucky replies, frowning as he reads the small print on the back. _Right._ This kind of thing could get a solider struck off, dishonorably discharged or penalized at the very least - it had only been on all the military posters and entrance packs since he first joined up. He remembers the ‘CAREFUL, YOU DON’T KNOW WHO HAS IT’, ‘HE PICKED UP MORE THAN JUST A GIRL’ and ‘JUST ANOTHER CLAPTRAP’ posters plastered on the inside of their barracks in Basic, and in the leaflets advising them to stay away from “easy women”.

His training officer once said that the second biggest enemy to the American, or any, army after the Germans was syphilis; which took 18,000 servicemen a day off the fighting fronts in the First Great War. Any men in hospital that weren’t suffering from gunshot wounds or missing appendages probably had something venereal - and that was something that would forever be marked on your record. Bucky’s face does go a little pink.

“Thanks. I guess…I’ll…follow the instructions.”

Steve nods sharply with a just as sharp a smile and starts up the hillside. “Good. Great. Come on, we’ve got climbing to do.”

Bucky stares at his quickly retreating back for a moment, almost amused, as his friend practically runs from the conversation they just finished. He looks at the packet again and tucks it subtly in an inner pocket of his kit bag, then slings the bag back on his shoulders and follows the others.

No markers. No chemicals. No serum that sticks; not in the blood they tested anyway.

  
. . .

Bad crowds growing up came in both boys and girls and when Becca was thirteen, while Bucky was studiously out at all hours with Steve avoiding home until his pa would drag him back by his ear, she was learning how to pick pocket from Madeleine Crosby. Bucky had seen her steal a wallet, four cigarette packets, a hair brush and powder, two dresses and a pair of shoes before he decided to put a stop to it.

He vaguely remembers snapping at her that if she was going to steal she could have at least stolen something they could actually ‘eat’ so ma or pa didn’t have to skip supper to ensure they all got a good share, instead of some silk dress she’d never be able to wear. Or booze, so they could drink it together in commisery when the twins were asleep and ma wasn’t alone.

Now he realizes both arguments probably hadn’t helped matters.

After a lot of shouting, a shared crime in helping her hide all of her stolen goods; including ma’s coin purse, and a promise not to tell pa or anyone else (he’d already told Steve); Bucky had made her teach him.

Then, after she’d fallen for the trick, had smacked her over the head hard enough to make her cry and _hit him back_ and told her she wouldn’t ever dare do it again or he absolutely would tell pa. That threat alone seemed to do the trick, as he hasn’t seen her do it since - in front of him anyway. He’d also threatened Madeleine Crosby to leave Becca alone for good measure; and she was caught greedily nabbing some fancy-pansy jewellery a year later, got in a world of trouble, and was sent off to an Aunt somewhere in wholesome Texas. Becca had never been caught as far as he knows; if she had anyone within fifteen blocks would have gone to his pa before they went to the police and then there definitely would have been some walloping he wouldn’t have forgotten.

After taking blood and photographs Peggy Carter had left to prepare the debrief and the doctor and nurse kindly turned away to let him dress again. They hadn’t been SSR, just the doctors Philips and Cater had been able to wrangle at very short notice to examine him properly. They probably had no idea what it was really for, or about, let alone been fully briefed on Project Rebirth. They’d taken his blood out of the two syringes they’d managed to get and put them into vials but hadn’t labelled them yet. There was vials of other men’s blood from earlier in the day waiting to get sent out (probably for venereal disease tests, he realizes now) in wooden holders by the window.

  
Considering the doctor and nurse weren’t SSR cleared, Peggy Carter probably shouldn’t have left the room. But then again, Peggy Carter doesn’t know what an absolute conniving little street thief his little sister is, or how good of a teacher it turns out, so he can’t really blame her. It wasn't much of anything to tear the labels off and switch them round; loading his right pocket up with his own.

_He’s a solider,_ he reminds himself, _he’s not a lab rat and he won’t be one ever ever ever again._

  
. . .

  
Where Steve was overly cocky before, now he seems to be characteristically unsure - not only in judgement calls and orders but also in his own movements.

The first cliff they climb he hangs back with the men instead of swinging off rocks like a spider monkey as usual, obviously with a mind to keeping the men close and working as a team. Lieutenant Jackson at the top tells him, “No. For fucks sake.

“If you can move and clear the top as easily as I’ve seen you do - you go up and clear the way of any enemies or scout ahead above. Otherwise they can lean over and shoot the rest of them off the mountainside, and where was the one who can scale twenty feet in five seconds? Thirty meters below where he should be.”

Steve holds in any backchat to that. Sarah would probably be proud of him for finally learning to shut his trap when baited - or not baited for that matter, considering it didn’t seem to make much of a difference when they were sixteen. On the second cliff; the more precarious one in that they have to climb without proper ropes, Steve half follows his advice but he’s still stiff where usually he would be fluid. Bucky can see he’s double guessing every move he’s going to make. Bucky slings himself off the rock-face and onto another free-standing rounded rock lightly; despite Jackson loading his kit with two more weights to _challenge him_, apparently. When Jackson’s not looking he kicks Steve’s foot when his friend is secure in his position. 

“Loosen up. You’re still moving like Ronnie Calbert is waiting round the corner to jump you.”

“I’m trying.” Steve hisses back at him.

“_Try harder_.”

Steve practically glares at him for that - like he did when Bucky told him the exact same thing when he was moaning about failing his math test twelve years ago.

Bucky’s embarrassment at the prophylactic packet has at some point turned to frustration without him realizing, and each time Steve second-guesses himself when Bucky_ knows_ he can do it, it gets worse. Except he’s getting frustrated at Steve instead of for him. Maybe he should have only shot at the shield twice - or once - instead of three times - but dammit he was trying to prove a point. Now he thinks maybe he’s proved it too well.

Four minutes later, when Bucky has rejoined the rest on the main rock-face and Jones replaces him on the rounded rock below - Steve’s swung himself on the more difficult part of the mountain so the rest of them have room on the track with more handhold opportunities.

Bucky’s not worried, because it shouldn’t be a problem, but Steve’s still hesitating a little even if he isn’t moving like a rusty tin-man anymore. They’re two-hundred and something meters off the ground. Six of them are attached to one another by two ropes, but otherwise are climbing free-hand. His ma would be having an absolute heart attack if she could see him now - he’s not putting this in the letter - that or the supposed gonorrhea. Steve does a little sideways jump, like he’s playing hopscotch to reach another handhold. He looks down mid-jump - Bucky can see the thoughts flash through the furrowed brow and underside of his chin - panicking if his little jump will jolt the loose rope attached to Dugan too much. It won’t. And Steve knew that before he jumped, it’s not even close to taut; he’s keeping perfect pace to the task - but he’s second guessing.

The new foothold he’s chosen breaks off before he can get a handhold.

He starts falling. 

Bucky’s voice cracks around a shout for him and he almost lets go as well - right arm swinging out to catch him five meters too far away. He falls past Bucky’s position.

Dugan’s arm goes out below him too.

There’s a clang and a crack and then Steve’s hanging by the strap and edge of his shield where he’s slammed it into the rock-face.

His foot is hanging an inch above Dugan’s outstretched hand. The shield’s sticking out from the cliff above them like a glorified umbrella. Bucky has no idea how Steve managed to get it off his back.

“Jesus-_fucking-Christ_.” He hisses, squeezing his eyes closed and pressing his face against the mossy stone. He feels frozen and stone-like - so close to the rock he might as well be part of it. Last month two commando recruits fell off this very same cliff. One died; the other mangled his legs so badly he’ll never walk again. Both those commando recruits survived two years of war, but didn’t survive this training unscathed. He looks down again as Steve swings himself round the side of the out-sticking shield and gets a handhold on the rock. He climbs like a monkey again until he’s half kneeling on-top of the shield. Falsworth’s shaking the last of the rubble from his hair below Dugan.

“Cap?” Dugan calls, “You good?”

“Yea- Yeah. All good… Sorry boys, I’ll watch my steps more.” Steve’s hiding it well under what looks to be embarrassment, but Bucky can tell - he’s still shaken by the sudden fall.

“Don’t worry about that - as long as your alright, Cap.”

“Yeah.” Steve repeats, then leans over the side of the shield. “Watch your eyes.” He calls, and Dugan does before he yanks out the shield one-handed.

Jackson calls to check on them from above. “Rodgers?”

Steve confirms again he’s fine, and Dugan cheers them all up as he thanks Steve for giving him a mighty fine looking handhold for one of his next moves in the crack jutting out where the shield had been. Bucky’s heaving in quiet but deep breaths in an effort to calm down, whole body stuck to the cliff like glue. Steve looks up and catches his eye, and nods firmly at him with wide eyes, startled but reassuring.

He’s alright.

He’s alright.

There’s two small cuts on his face where some sharp rock must have clipped him, but they’ll be gone in an hour, and he used to come out with worse every time he emerged from some alley somewhere.

_He’s alright._

“Carry on Barnes!” Jackson yells from above, red hair and pale face peaking out over the edge of the cliff above. 

He takes one more breath, and carries on, now at the front of their line. He finishes first, crawling along the grass on his belly and flopping onto his back to pretend to catch his breath. His chest feels hollow and empty. Morita comes behind him on the same rope, and he helps him up, then Steve when he emerges on the other, even though he doesn’t need it.

He clasps Bucky’s arm firmly and the touch of the fingers still calloused from drawing and stretching canvases every week grounds him back where he needs to be.

_He’s alright._

  
. . .

It’s not like Andrew. He’s alright.

. . .

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know why this hasn’t occurred to him before, can’t possibly understand how _self obsessed_; how incredibly_ undeniably stupid_ he’s been not to realize. He’s in training and Steve has already almost died. They’ve been using live ammunition but this isn’t the same; this is training, not war. And Steve almost---

He can’t. _No, he can’t._

He can’t lose anyone else, and certainly not Steve. He can’t, he just--he just _can’t._ He refuses to watch someone else he loves die in front of him, even more so than he refuses to let someone strap him down flat again.

But he can’t leave. Not now, not anymore.

He doesn’t know what to do. 

_What can he do?_

He holds it together throughout the rest of the mountaineering expedition he’s proud to say, and anytime he might move too stiffly or anytime tremors take his hands he can blame it on the winter winds this high up. Any studied silence can be blamed on his stubbornness to complete the task at hand, and inwardly he stares at the back of Steve’s head to calm his stuttering heartbeat when it starts going too fast. He abseils so quick back down the other-side of the mountain he gives Steve a run for his money; so fast even its as though he’s falling himself. He moves at the speed of his pounding heartbeat while his breath remains steady and his skin remains cold and cool.

He pictures Steve’s rope snapping, and he falls and falls and he falls. 

The warmth of his best friend’s blood splatters against his face, just like Andrew, and its the only heat he can feel in the cold weather. He see’s Steve on the ground far far below him, a halo of blood pooled around his head like the sun did back in Austria; a dead archangel instead of a shinning one.

He squeezes his eyes shut to rid himself of the picture and his foot slips on a downward bounce. He catches his knee and skins it on the rock under his cargo pants - but its the rope burn on his hands he feels. He doesn’t let go or loosen after he catches himself, just lets the sting of it linger; lets the rope take more skin off his fingers and palms. The heat of it replaces the warm splatters on his face and they tingle and then disappear.

He’s unclipped himself and is halfway through packing his rope away when the others and Jackson touch down on lower ground. Steve frowns at his hands and tries to catch one to look when he notices. Bucky shrugs with a quirk of his lips and shakes his hands out with a little jolt and jump. The pain grounds him the way Steve’s calloused hand did, which is good, because he can’t rely on Steve’s touch all day everyday. The longer he allows himself to take advantage of that the harder it will be to give up.

“Did you slip?”

“A little. It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Just stings. It’s fine.”

He shakes them out again; Steve raises his eyebrows, glances at Bucky’s scuffed knee - but seems to let it go.

He flexes his fingers and squeezes his nails into the red muscle and flaked skin for the rest of the day, in and out, in and out. The warm splatters on his face don’t return, nor does the deathly vision.

The truck rocks and shakes on the way back and the others hold on tight to the bench and the straps from the ceiling. Bucky lets himself bounce and thud back and forth in the corner and picks at the cuticles of the middle finger on his left hand. The nail’s half grown back from where Zola pulled it out, but it’s still shorter than the others. The cracks in his other nails are gone, but he’s bitten them raw also, so he can’t chew them any shorter.

Jones nudges him in the side with an elbow. Bucky shrugs at him like he did Steve, and doesn’t go any further. But then, when they get back to their tents just before sunset, Jones takes his dinner shift so he doesn’t have to cook.

“Thanks.” Bucky says to him gratefully, voice quiet. He feels even more so when Jones hands him a jerky ration to eat cold so he doesn’t have to worry or go completely hungry if he misses dinner. He’ll have to pay him back in kind tomorrow. He wanders off towards the other end of the zip line as Morita and Dernier head towards the main castle and Steve up the bathroom block to relieve himself. The others will also probably shower at some point; at this time anyone whose not on shift tends to do their own thing. He won’t be sorely missed if he disappears for a while, not until it gets dark anyway.

(He overheard Jackson and a Staff Sergeant this morning saying they were going to be doing shooting drills in the dark tonight. Even if Bucky wanted to sleep they're not given much of a chance to.)

By the time he reaches the little river stretching across the fields of the highlands the sky is orange and pink as the sun sparkles off the snow lining the dips in the land; and the wooden bridge is a dark silhouette in the sinking sun. These are his two new favourite colours since Austria, ever since he spent two hours staring at those exact same shades with Italian mountains in the distance instead of Scottish. The only thing that’s different, or could make it better, is Steve appearing at the center of it, backlit like a Michlaelanglo painting.

It’s incredibly quiet here, which is why Bucky likes it. The river’s frozen over so the gentle rush of water is dulled under the ice, and the birds are silent. The wind whistles around him, blowing his hair into his eyes and across his forehead, but he escapes the worst of it as he slides down the bank closer to the water. He stomps on the ice to break it with his thick boot - sinks until he’s sitting halfway down the riverbank and can pull his boots and socks off. 

Massaging the blisters from his feet, digging his skinned thumbs into the arches; he traces a few of the thin raised scars he can feel, and then lowers them into the jagged hole in the ice. His breath leaves him in a rush as the frozen water rushes past his heels, over his scars and between his toes. He thuds back into the riverbank, breath finally matching his thudding heart. What does he do?

What does he _do?_

A full body shiver takes over before he can stop it, the water burning with cold the same way the yellow serums used to; taking his toes, then his ankles and legs, then right the way up his spine to the base of his skull. The iciness surges and flashes out with feelings and visions.

He sees Steve and his halo of blood.

He see’s Steve with bullet holes in his throat and chest.

He sees Steve, eyes glassy and staring, with half his face and uniform burned off him, the wreckage of a blown grenade surrounding him.

He sees the smaller Steve he’s always known locked up in his own iron lung and screaming until he looses his voice and his life.

He sees Steve laid out on his back in their church near the alter, in an open coffin, still in his uniform but with the shield that didn’t protect him laid on his chest.

He sees Andrew surging forward from his own perspective, see’s his skull explode out - red warmth on his face and a red mist in his eye.

He chokes out a sob, shoves his feet deeper and curls around on his side. _He can’t he can’t he can’t._ He can’t loose Steve the way he lost Andrew, he can’t loose Steve at all.

He shouldn’t be here.

If he’s not here; if he’s not on this squad then he won’t have to watch Steve die, and he won’t get him killed the same way he got Andrew killed. He won’t have to risk loosing himself and killing someone else’s child all over again either.

But they’ll send him out anyway - with Steve or without him. He’ll go back to the front, not home, and then all there will be to do is run into a hail of bullets and hope he doesn’t survive this time. Let's not forget either: Steve could die anyway - but Bucky won’t have to watch it happen. Then they could be reunited in the afterlife, if there even is such a thing - if they even went to the same place - when Bucky knows deep down; they won’t.

He can barely live in his life without Andrew and his pa, he most definitely can’t do it without Steve. Not even his ma, or a thousand letters from her can make that even close to being okay.

Curling up even tighter onto his side he digs his fingers into the dirt until the soil is deep under his nails (_the same way Andy’s bloo--_) and he scrunches in and out, in and out; again and again_ and again_. The soil filters though his fingers like the grass did way back when he still had a heart, but there’s no rain in his hair this time. He never wants to feel Steve’s blood on his skin, he’s too scared it’ll sink into his flesh and stain it red and brown forever. A rash or a birthmark - except they raise up from deep within him whenever he causes the death of his favourite people in the world. He’s amazed the others can’t see, and don’t judge the ones he wears and feels all the time from Andrew - they lie on his face, obvious and scarlet, layering his face in blood freckles.

Achnacarry is a hundred and ten miles from Paisely, straight down.

He knows this because he checked on their second day here. While everyone else was listening, learning and notating maps under expert tutelage of landmarks, potential weaknesses and proposed approaches Bucky was searching fruitlessly across the Scottish territories until he found the tiny dot and typed name of the small town. Here in Scotland is the closest to home he’s felt in a long time, even if it’s not his home he’s close to.

Andrew once told him he looked like his little brother; the same eyes and the same chin; the way Andrew wanted him to look when he was older. The nearest railway station is eight miles away; and Bucky has thought so many times of leaving in the night, catching a train to Paisely and going to see if it’s true. He’s also thought about apologizing to Andrew’s ma again and again, the same way his own ma used to do, and giving the woman the red circle and green octagon in his pocket. Then he thinks for more than a second about actually handing them over and _no. _No, he _can’t._ He can’t do that either, just like he can’t watch Steve kill himself in this war from his own self-righteousness.

He pulls Andrew’s tags from his pocket, holds them close and sniffs them. They don’t smell like his friend-not-friend, all he can smell is the damp dirt, mildew and the animal urine in the snow; so instead he picks at the flaking skin of his palm inbetween the tags and the chain holding them together. 

Then he traces the R - _Richard, Robert, Ronald, Raymond, Rodger, Russel, Robin, Ross, Romeo, Rodney, Randall, Rubin, Rowan_ \- and opens his eyes.  
  
A bearded man is stood halfway between him and the silhouette of the bridge, and the setting sun is lighting him from behind. It’s like a Michelangelo painting, but he’s brown-haired not blonde, and it’s one of the artist’s more graphic and less polished paintings - but no less beautiful.

For a moment, a long heavy, frozen moment - all Bucky wants to scream is_ where were you?_

_I called and I searched for you after when I was alone and where were you? _

_Where. Were. You?_

Instead he sobs out, “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry Andy. I’m so sorry.”

_I’m so sorry I’m here and you’re not, only a mere hundred miles from your home. I wanted you to be able to go home. It should have been you. It should have been you._

“I’m so sorry.”

The figure in this painting, the shade of his friend-more-than-friend doesn’t answer but he sinks onto his haunches and squats so he’s level with Bucky.

The shade’s elbows and neck are bruised and blue and there’s awful raw scratches on his forearms from his compulsions - but no blood. The shades damaged and broken - like him - scruffy; but clean. Bucky can’t smell Andrew on the tags but he can smell the carbolic soap they washed each other with the night before - a memory in a memory. He can still feel Andrew’s lips on his and feel Andrew’s pulse point thumping steady and soothing. He remembers catching his breath under his chin next to Andy’s throat and kissing him there too. Remembers how his friend-more-than-friend used to run his hands through Bucky’s hair and scalp and how it tickled but also sent him into a soft sleep night after night. He remembers how it felt when they used to slot together like a jigsaw, and how hard Andy used to clutch his hand - as if terrified that he’s be separated from Bucky for the final time every morning.

(And they were.)

He remembers their promise to each other, of _‘lets live for tonight’_, and how it felt to have Andy inside him, warm and complete. Oh god - he wants it back so much. Oh, god.

He’d do anything for the shade to come closer; for it’s fingers to comb his hair back from his forehead and send him to the peaceful dark.

(He’s tried to do it himself in his tent, deep in his sleeping bag, but his fingers aren’t the same. They don’t have the magic touch; just the cursed one. He feels like maybe he did curse someone way back when, only made a mistake somewhere long the way and cursed himself instead of Hydra.)

“What can I do to make it right?” He asks the shade, and again when it doesn’t answer. “What can I do?"

It watches him sadly, and rests it's hands against over it's bent knees. It's missing the hole in it's skull, and it has all it's limbs; arms, legs, fingers and toes. Bucky never saw what happened to the body after. He doesn't remember. The shade still doesn't answer,_ does it still have a tongue; or did Zola mutilate that in death like he did to the rest of their souls while they were living?_

“I could - I could take these back to your ma; to your brother.” He tries, lying the tags out flat on his palm; his insides warring fiercely with his words. “Give them to your family - they should have them, it’s where they belo-”

His words stop as the shade shakes it’s head - then points at the tags and then at Bucky.

“But your family shoul-”

He points at Bucky again.

_Keep them_, the shade says without opening it’s mouth; just stares at him with Andy’s eyes.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks softly, but so very very gratefully.

_Keep them. They’re yours._

“Okay.” He replies, voice thick, then closes his hand back around them and tucks them close, protective against his chest; right next to his heart. “But what else can I….I need to…I need to do something about this, about you and Steve but I---I need…” He trails off.

_What dae yer need?_ It asks. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, pushing his head into the dirt of the riverbank, spreads his toes so the freezing water hits them in a different way. The shades voice, when it speaks, sounds closer. _Tell me what yer need._

Bucky swallows painfully as he re-opens them once more. “I need you to tell me what to do. What do I do?”

The shade’s eyes scrunch up in the corners - it is closer - and it shakes it’s head.

“No _please_. I need you to tell me what to do. You always used to tell me what to do.”

_That’s a bold faced lie,_ it says. _Ye were the bossy one._

“I need you to.” Bucky repeats, “any choice I make is the wrong one, and I, I need to not make it. I-”

_Need me tae tell you what tae do,_ it finishes, then points to itself. _Say my name._

“Andrew McNair--Andrew _R_,” he stresses, correcting himself. The middle name is so important, he never forgets the middle name; has made a guessing game up for it to remind himself always. “McNair. Andy.” He finishes with the nickname. It points to the tags enclosed in his raw fist. “Corporal, her Majesty’s 78th Division.” Bucky says, already knowing, understanding even with the veil between them. ”Serial number: 1440638. You’re a Baptist.”

_What happened tae me?_

“I got you killed.”

The shade slaps it’s hand hard on the frozen ice, but it leaves no handprint or shadow. It’s face looks angry. _What happened tae me?_

Bucky breathes for moment; “You died in service to your country.”

It nods.

Three tears run down his face. “You were so brave.” Bucky can’t help but add. “I think I loved you. Somehow, somewhere.”

The eyes soften on it’s face.

“I think I loved you.” He repeats again because he’s never let himself really think it let alone say it before. “What do you need me to do?”  
  
_My name, my death._ It says, then points to the distance he came from. _Tell them. Dinnae’ hide me anymore. Tell them my name._

“Let your family grieve.” Bucky finishes. “Okay. Yes._ Yes Andy._ I can do that. I’m sorry I haven’t-”

It shakes it’s head to stop him, hands up and out, so he does. Even without speaking this shade talks as much as it’s living soul used to. _It’s okay. I understand_, it adds, and even though it can’t, just like none of his new and old friends can’t, Bucky feels like it _can._

“There must be something else.”

_Nothing else. Not’ for me._

“But for Steve?” Bucky asks, “What can I do for Steve?”

_Ye already know,_ it replies. _Ye couldn’t save me but ye could save him._

“I can’t watch him die. I don’t think I can even watch him bleed anymore - not like I used to. I can’t just stand around out there and wait for him to die in front of me.”

_Ye won’t_, the shade argues, _And yer dinnae know that he will--_

“--Don’t be stupid. Of course he will - everyone does. Everyone dies. And I’m telling you - I can’t_ take it_.”

_There’s nothin’ tae say he will--_

“--Only a war--”

-_-Shut up! There’s nae predetermined list of life o’ death, and I’ dinnae think for a second ye’d just be there ‘waitin’ for him tae die.’ _It keeps going, confident and assuring where Bucky feels like he can never be again._ Ye wouldn’t wait, ye’d fight._

He can't say anything to that for a good while. The shade flares with the sun as it reflects off the ice. Eventually, slowly; quietly Bucky asks: “What if I don’t have it in me to fight?”

It's said with the same vulnerability that Steve asked him, ‘what if I’m not ready?’

_Ye’d never forgive yerself if ye just left without th’ chance - if he died and ye weren’t with him._

“I wouldn’t forgive myself if I _was_ there.” 

_But it would be worse. This way ye’d actually have a chance to protect ‘im._

He can’t help it - adding sarcastically: “Like I protected you?” 

The shade snaps at him again. It’s all true, honest to a fault; Bucky knows it as well as the shade does. He leans his head against the bank and stares at the shade as the sun disappears beyond the bridge. He can’t feel his feet in the water. He has a new mission, he supposes. His old missions used to be to survive, then to escape, then to die, then to make it back to Allied command. He’s done three out of four, succeeded in his missions more than Andrew who scored one out of four. 

He supposes he has to carry missions for the the both of them now.

“I’m so tired, Andy.” He unveils, like he’s telling one of the many secrets they told each other in the dark with their hands clasped together.

_I know_, it replies.

“I wish you hadn’t gone - but…I’m glad you didn’t have to go back again. It got so much worse without you.”

_I wish you didn’t either_, Bucky thinks it says, but he’s not sure. The shade is fading with the setting sun. The last of the light is hiding behind the dark bridge but there’s still a little light shining on the ice beneath the arch.

Bucky doesn’t want to take his eyes away, doesn’t dare blink; just allows his body to remain slumped in the dirt with his freezing feet submerged for a few moments longer. The shade stands; it’s upper body fading like a flare as it’s obscured by more darkness. It walks towards Bucky who feels like crying and sobbing all over again, but feels so gutted and empty he has no more energy for it. It stops right in front of him, it’s upper body almost all gone; it’s face invisible. It lifts a transparent hand towards him and says...

_It’s time tae get up James._

Shaking, Bucky takes the hand. In a flash something goes through him - he feels like he’s here and far away all at the same time; balanced between now and wherever the shades call home, stood on the thin invisible line fragmenting life and death.

“Will you stay with me?” Bucky begs.

The ghost hand in his squeezes - tight enough to hurt - as though it’s terrified it’ll be separated from Bucky for the final time. He remembers.

_Did you love me too, do you think?_ Bucky thinks; wants to ask, but doesn’t. Yet while he’s here and in the faraway place, on that balancing beam like a circus acrobat, he feels like the shade hears him. He feels like the shade answers.

_Yes_

  
. . .

(If he was a shell before, he’ll be shattered into dust if Steve leaves him too; so he’ll have to make sure he doesn’t. Simple as. And if it comes down to it, as awful as it sounds, he’ll have to leave Steve before Steve can leave him.)

  
. . .

That night when it’s dark and they’re on their feet or on their bellies armed and shooting at targets; Bucky closes his eyes when he pulls the trigger.

Jackson challenged him today. He’s challenging himself tonight. He has a mission, and he’s going to get four out of five now if it kills him; at which point then that means five out of five. Either is good, one of them is great.

No one can see him shooting blind with his eyes closed, unlike himself who can see the edges of each target in the moonlight, so no one says a thing as he just listens to the wind and does the math.

Every bullet but two hit the bullseye. 

He can do better.

  
. . .

  
He’s up before the rest, and has an extra share of bacon and awful bitter coffee ready for Jones when he wakes; just the way he likes it.

Bucky has inherited his ma’s sweet tooth so he prefers his with about four more sugars and a lot of proper stirred creamer. He’s only had a real coffee as such a few times in his life - but he knows it’s better than the sludge Jones downs like he’s chugging beer. Gabe moans around his tin can and thanks god for sending such an angel as Bucky to him this early in the morning. Bucky tells him to shut it and "don't thank God - thank me." Then he throws half a sausage at his head. They might as well take advantage of the food here, like Monty said, which while rationed is still probably more than they’ll get when they go back overseas.

“Well you seem ever so slightly less grumpy than last night.” Gabe comments, teasing. “Not to say you’re not insufferably grumpy right now, but it’s an improvement.”

Bucky barely restrains from glaring at the guy through his eyelashes.

“I am not, and _was not_ grumpy.”

Gabe laughs, “Yeah okay. Sure you weren’t, big guy.” He rolls his eyes conspiratorial at Morita, who for the moment part ignores him and stumbles haphazardly to the bathroom block. “Maybe not grumpy, but you were down, that’s for sure. You okay now? Hows your hands?”

_What is it with everyone asking if he’s okay lately? Is it that obvious?_ He thought he was doing better.

He shakes one hand out while he stirs the beans with the other. “Yup.” He simply summarizes.

The truth is his hands finally started aching and burning in an unwelcome way last night during the shooting drill, and made it uncomfortable to hold the barrel and pull the trigger. It was even worse when he carried on aggravating them by deciding to strip and clean all his new rifle parts afterwards, much to Dugan’s chagrin in the next sleeping bag over. He knows he’s going to have to bandage or cover them with gloves so no one notices if the burns are suddenly gone one morning. Steve was suspicious during the march back, he absolutely knows he was, but now he’s suitably and quite happily living in denial since _'Bucky's'_ blood work came back. It reminds him of his pa pretending he’s forgotten or hasn’t seen the surviving evidence of a tryst - or illegal experimentation apparently.

Bucky’s under no impression to remind him of it - but Dugan’s one to watch too - who doesn’t know about the bloodwork but does know about his apparently cut up feet, and knows about Project Rebirth like the the rest of the squad do. It’s not that the rest of them aren’t smart but Dugan does have an almost unsettling affinity of putting two and two together. He wants to trust the guy (his friend) like he used to, but can’t quite bring himself to let it settle. Though they’ve been toeing and joking around it, Bucky’s not forgotten Dugan’s unwelcome words in the shower block nor, _especially,_ on the march back; and the absolute fit they'd sent him down. Dugan’s a good actor, but he doesn’t think the guy’s forgotten either. Or has not felt the underlying tension that comes through whenever he tries to force something on Bucky; normally more food.

Gabe raises his eyebrows.

“I’m fine…I just….needed to figure some things out.”

“Did you? Figure them out?”

Bucky nods, and says quietly. “I will have soon…Drink your terrible sludge and eat your burnt sausage.” He then orders.

Jones takes a bite and hides a small grimace, “Burnt is right, you are a terrible cook. You literally burn everything.”

“I like it crispy.”

“There’s crispy, and then there’s _black_, Sarge.”

“Better than _he_ can do.” Bucky says, nodding at Steve as he also emerges. Steve knows full well he can’t argue with him on that one.

“I can cook one thing.” His friend reveals, “cabbage stew-”

“-and it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever tasted-”

“-don’t be an ass-”

“-and I had to eat it every Tuesday for three years. It’s never gotten better.”

Steve laughs; he commiserates. “If anything it’s gotten worse.”

“The real reason he’s promoted to Captain to lead this unit ain’t cause of his fancy muscles and fancy footwork; it’s because if he’s in charge it means he doesn’t have to cook. Saves everyone from never-ending food poisoning that way.” Bucky grumbles.

Gave laughs at them. “So that’s why you always take the spoon and pans off him whenever he tries to volunteer.”

“To be fair, he is actually saving you there.” Steve once again admits. “But I’m more than happy to-”

“Think I’ll stick to Sarge’s burnt sausage, thanks Cap.”

Steve holds up his hands, “Each to his own.”

Jones finishes his coffee with a thick gulp at the end, making Bucky grimace as he starts plating out the food. Dugan plops down and sits on his kit with a grunt. 

“Anyone know what were doing today?” Jones asks as he refills his cup.

Dugan replies, messing with the hairs in his moustache. “Shooting. Climbing. Scavenging. Jumping. Same stuff we do everyday I’d imagine.” 

Steve clears his throat. “Actually no. I spoke to Vaughan yesterday. Final assessments are starting today with hand to hand combat - then shooting and running the course again.”

“Today?”

“They’ve already been assessing us on the mountaineering and combat maneuvers over the last few days.”

“Oh great.” Morita grumbles, returning, probably remembering his third and fifth parachute landing attempts. “And you didn’t think to mention that earlier, Cap?” 

Personally Bucky doesn't think it matters if they knew they were being assessed or not - they’ve had eyes on them at nearly all times anyway.

“They only clued me in last night - technically they’re assessing me as well as you.” Steve defends with bags under his eyes. He’s probably spent the night reading new strategy and command books he’s taken from the library again. It wouldn’t be the first or even the fifth time.

“Maybe if you actually slept you wouldn’t fumble and almost kill yourself on a cliff.” Bucky mumbles grumpily under his breath to himself. He winces straight after as Steve’s head snaps in his direction; he keeps forgetting Steve doesn’t have a bad ear anymore. He receives a look that makes him want to duck his head down and apologize - but also, he’s a stubborn prick and he apologized enough yesterday.

“Well, that’s what he told me.” Steve continues, still slightly glaring at Bucky from the corner of his eye. “And then we’re finishing with the 34th to 36th recruit groups with the trial beach landing.”

The 34th, 35th and 36th recruits have thirteen more weeks of training on them, but who’s counting; they’ve got Captain America. And he has Bucky in his shadow and at his back; determined to die for him or with him. Some of the guys cheer at the thought that the rough pace of training and screaming Lieutenants are coming to an end, while some are apathetic, considering the next step after the fake beach landing is probably a real one.

Bucky says, “Let me guess, live ammunition?” 

“As always.” Steve quips.

(Later he admits to Bucky he’s a little worried. Their live ammunition drills so far have ended in numerous bullet grazes, twisted joints and bruises for all of them, but the beach landing seems as though it might be another playing field entirely. It’s normal procedure for commando training, but as an officer Steve also knows that the Allies are planning a landing at Normandy and did a trial run just last week for it with live ammunition. Eight hundred men died - all of it friendly fire and all of it on English soil. 

_What a waste,_ is Bucky’s first thought, instead of _what a shame for those men’s families._)

_Fucking fantastic,_ is what Bucky thinks in the here and now - and presses into his scabby hands with blunted nails again. Dernier clears away as Bucky cooked their barbecue breakfast, so he crawls back into his tent to grab his towel. He washes the sweat and grime of himself in the cold shower - as always barely feeling the chill in comparison to the river; which his body reacts to even if his awareness doesn’t. He’s back in his pants, boots and undershirt sat on the sink trying to tie a bandage around his palm with his teeth when Dugan strolls in.

He immediately rolls his eyes.

“Oi.” He calls, and snatches the tail end from Bucky’s teeth, “give it here would yer.” It’s not a question and answer - more like an order. He’s still not entirely sure who’s higher up now - him or Dugan. Or Falsworth for that matter, but for once dutifully allows it without complaint.

Dugan glances up at him slightly at the give, moustache quirking up with his brows at the lack of argument for the sake of it. He twists the bandage slightly and then ties it so the knot is on the outside of Bucky's hand so it won’t get in the way of his shooting today. Dugan has his own bandage on under his trousers on his calf - a bullet graze from one of their early drills. He grabs Bucky’s other wrist to see the other one. Bucky’s feels the fingers lock around the joint, and doesn't feel anything else. He jerks it away on reflex. 

Dugan lets go sharply, and Bucky pushes out a breath within himself.

He shakes off the flinch with the same hand, and lays it palm up for Dugan to access. The older man waits for a moment. _We good?_ He seems to say.

Bucky doesn’t answer, just looks at him and the door impatiently, other hand already holding his over-shirt. Dugan lets out something between a scoff or a grunt in acknowledgement and then wraps the hand more securely than Bucky would have bothered with - but then he was more concerned with covering them up that wrapping them to stay clean. He unwraps Bucky’s hand almost as soon as he finishes and pulls it back under the running tap. 

“You’ve still got dirt on here and under your nails.” He admonishes.

“So do you most of the time.”

“I don’t have ripped up hands though, do I?” Dugan argues right back, tough love as always. He rubs his thumb into one of the worst scores to dig the dirt out and Bucky pretends to hiss like it hurts more than it does. His pain tolerance has spiked to an incredible degree now that he’s finally come off all the drugs.

He notices Dugan getting a good look at the hand.

“Are you done?” He asks impatiently, almost rudely.

Dugan gives him a look that he thinks is supposed to be cold but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Give me a minute, would ya?”

He wraps Bucky’s hand securely again and says, “Bucky listen. I’ve been wanting to-”

“Thanks.” Bucky cuts him off, pretending not to have heard. “I’ll see you up there.”

. . .

“Lieutenant-Colonel. May I speak to you for a moment?” He requests at the end of their shooting assessment when Steve follows Vaughan’s request to follow him to his office. Steve’s aim has improved tremulously since Bucky corrected his posture last week, he’s proud to say. His friend was still shooting hunched and incorrectly spaced; as though he was still five foot four instead of over six foot; but even then that would have still been incorrect. Clearly until this commando training no one had really bothered to correct his beginner stance.

Vaughan looks at him squarely for a moment, grim-faced as always. He must see it’s important. “Follow us inside then, Barnes.” He does, entering the corridor leading to it just after Steve. “Well, what is it you wish to say?” He asks after they’ve entered the office and as he’s sitting down at his desk.

He glances at Steve in the office corner, whose meeting has been pushed back on account of Bucky’s request. He looks at him questioningly. Bucky takes a breath, and a bruised brown-haired shade in the sunlight appears at the corner of the window. “Lieutenant-Colonel, I would like to report a death - I don’t believe it’s on record.”

Vaughan raises an eyebrow, surprised. 

“I understand it’s not proper protocol but I - it occurred to me that it was never reported when we returned from Krausberg.” Vaughan’s read his file. He knows all about Krausberg - but he doesn’t know about Andrew. No one knows about Andrew except him, Zola and the shade at the window. “And-”

“Very well.” Vaughan interrupts, “What regiment?”

He can feel Steve’s frown on the back of his neck.

“Her Majesty’s Army 78th Division - or it might have been 68th…” He’s forgets for a moment. “No, my apologies, it’s the 78th, I know his serial number if that helps.”

“Not American.” Vaughan comments.

“No sir.”

“As a training facility it’s not really our jurisdiction, but what is these days. Go on.”

“Andrew R McNair. 1440638. He’s-he was Baptist sir - I don’t know what that would but for burial but-”

“And his body?”

Bucky pauses, trying to stop himself from rambling. “No body, sir. Not anymore.”

The man nods, solemn. “Very well. I’ll report it to the right people. Anything else?”

Bucky hesitates for a moment, about to say no, because he’s done it. He’s done what he came to do.

“He was brave,” He blurts out, “right until the end. You should say that too.”

Vaughan raises another eyebrow, then cants his head at the door in dismissal. “You’re dismissed, Barnes.”

Bucky breathes - he’s kept his promise . Andrew’s family can properly grieve now, and so he leaves the room. 

“Right, Captain Rodgers-” he hears right before the door shuts.

  
. . .

Steve’s worried for nothing. They all survive the beach landing and pass their assessments; some with flying colours. They officially graduate as commandos and are sent by bus back down south an hour later. On the bus, or more like right before it, Steve says.

“Andrew McNair, huh?” He asks like he’s been holding it in for a while; at least a couple of days.

“Yeah.” Bucky comments, non-committal.

“That was nice - what you said at the end.” He says after floundering for a second. “But you must know that-”

“Vaughan won’t report that part. I know. Against protocol.”

“If you know that then why did you say it? You’re the most straightforward, realistic person I know Buck” -_ I’m really not_ \- “so why-”

“Because someone ought to know how brave he was ‘cept me. He deserves that.”

“Who was he?”

Bucky pauses, about to answer for a second. He and Andrew told each other a lot of secrets, but he and Steve keep a lot of secrets from each other instead. What’s one more? “Mind your own goddamn business, Steve.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, very sorry it was a bit of a longer wait inbetween this chapter and the last - I didn't feel like it was right to post with everything going on around the world at the moment; with Black-out Tuesday, Black Lives Matter and COVID-19; and things got a little on top of me last week. But I've got my stuff sorted now - so here it is. Also: welcome new readers!
> 
> Bucky's 'missions' didn't start with the Winter Solider, he's had missions for far longer before Hydra; and Steve Rodgers has always been one of them. Bucky's chosen mission is very different to his Hydra assigned one. What did you all think to the return of Andrew? Was it a bit of a surprise, or not? What do we think their first mission's going to be?
> 
> REFERENCES:  
PROPHYLACTIC PACKET: Every G.I. was issued with an Individual Chemical Prophylactic Packet (Item # 9118000), designed to allow him to perform prophylactic treatment if he feared V.D. was present (also sometimes designated E.P.T. Kit, or Emergency Prophylactic Treatment Kit). The individual packet contained: 1 Tube containing 5 Grams of Ointment (30% Calomel + 15% Sulfathiazole), Direction Sheet, Soap Impregnated Cloth & Cleansing Tissue.
> 
> VENERAL DISEASES: During the Great War, V.D. had caused the Army lost services of 18,000 servicemen per day. Although by 1944 this number had been reduced 30-fold, there were still around 606 servicemen incapacitated by V.D. every day. This drop in numbers was partly because of the Army’s effort to raise awareness about the dangers faced by servicemen through poor sexual hygiene, but also because of the important developments in medicine in the area of treatment of the disease. In late 1943 a case of gonorrhea required a hospital treatment of 30 days, and curing syphilis remained a 6-month ordeal – by mid 1944, the average case of gonorrhea was reduced to 5 days, and in many cases the patient remained on duty status while being treated.
> 
> Posters mentioned in the chapter are all based on real posters of the Second World War, as are the pamphlets that all enlisted men received when they sign up, and encouraged prevention in a number of ways. For example matches included in K Ration cartons were often printed with catchy slogans warning against the dangers of V.D. Films and posters, graphically presented slogans and warnings, urging men on grounds of patriotism, unit pride, faithfulness to loved ones at home, and personal self interest to avoid illicit sexual contact, which, as was emphasized, almost invariably led to infection! If soldiers were unable to comply, the education programs urged them to be careful by using the mechanical and chemical prophylactics provided by the Army correctly.


	21. PART 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys start calling Steve ‘Captain Nag’ and call Bucky ‘Trouble and Strife’, occasionally throwing out ‘the old married couple down the lane’. Monty becomes ‘posh twot’, Jim becomes ‘hoochman’, Dernier ‘boomtastic’ and Dugan becomes ‘moustachary’ which he complains about endlessly due to the lack of originality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: At the risk of a spoiler; there is a vague attempted (but failed) sexual assault in this chapter about halfway through. If this is triggering for you, look after yourself; and perhaps skip the top paragraphs after the 10th . . . (dot dot dot) split - if that makes sense. This tag has been added to the main story tags.

STEVE

_Strasbourg, Occupied France. Behind German Line I  _ _ 48.58506° N, 7.73642° E _

“Lets go small with the first one,” Philips had said in London before they got on the plane, “test the waters.”

It’s a small base but in dangerous territory; Stasbourg, France; ridiculously close to the German border. The base they’re hitting may be small but, _boy, do they go big._

They hit the it on Christmas Eve.

There’s so many orange flames and so much of Dugan’s huge booming laughter afterward by the end it’s almost festive. They kick the doors inwards and open fire in a very dramatic way - Steve leads with his shield, the commandos following him in a fan - letting loose all the aggression they gained from two months of capture. They catch the place by complete surprise - men going down before they can even pull out their weapons, and they capture it in under half an hour.

Steve’s ready this time when they take prisoners - and knocks those left over out - and then pries the cyanide capsules from their teeth. One cracks and fizzes by accident but the rest are successfully removed - with good reason too - upon waking five out of six chomp down and grind their jaws. Nothing comes, and with a flash they start fighting again - not to get away but to get their hands on a weapon - whether it’s to hurt the commandos or themselves Steve doesn’t know - but he also doesn’t give them a chance to try.

They search the now captured factory and take intel where they can though there's not much - just old telegrams and equipment. They take them anyway - and Falsworth scores a point for finding early, but annotated blueprints for some sort of flame thrower - but the flame is some kind of innately generated plasma. There’s a note that says_ ‘blauer Strahl am Ausgang’_ which means _‘blue beam on exit’_, so Steve can only presume the ‘generated plasma’ is the same kind of unknown energy source Howard is still frowning over.

They take that, the telegrams, the equipment they see and don’t already have and some that they do - and the prisoners and load them chained up in a cargo truck. Dernier and Bucky set charges on all the structural beams, and Steve, Dugan and Gabe move everything left outside to the inside so that they go up too when Dernier triggers the detonation. They drive thirty something meters away, wire trailing out of the back of the truck, until Dernier calls a halt - and with a click the smaller barn factory goes up in a wash of orange and sparking clouds. The blue equipment they had no room for ignites in a shock-wave, and the air rushes past Steve’s face with an electric buzz. The trees around them sway with it. Dernier cuts the line, done, and they drive in almost darkness to Corbigny where they have a plane and pilot hiding at a disused airfield waiting for them.

Steve finishes the four hour drive, pulling off the road before the boundary fence of the airfield as Dugan sits beside him and comments on his clumsy gear-stick work.

“I didn’t learn how to drive until three weeks ago Dugan, cut me some slack.” Steve rolls his eyes, but is smiling a little, still hyped from their assault.

Dugan’s been driving Jeeps for years, so’s Morita and so’s Monty - Gabe’s given it a go a few times too, mostly because his own pop used to be a driver - whereas Steve (and Bucky’s) experience before Scotland mostly consisted of hitching rides in the backs of freezer trucks when they ran out of money to get home.

Bucky’s had one driving lesson in his life before training, at Fort Hamilton; his father’s base, and he and his pop had both returned in foul moods. The next time Steve had seen him was the next morning when he walked out of his bedroom to find Bucky already sat on the counter lamenting at Steve’s mother, enlightened overnight with a philosophical conclusion.

_“I’ve decided I don’t need to learn how to drive, we live in _ _ New York. _ _ I can get the subway everywhere.”_

_“Oh my god.” Steve had groaned, having already been privy to the incensed ranting about gear sticks, reversing and mirrors that Bucky had already thrown at him yesterday. He drops and drapes himself over the couch dramatically, chest heavy after an asthma attack the night before. Sarah slides his pack of asthma cigarettes to Bucky who tosses them at Steve wordlessly._

_“Language Steve, stop blaspheming.”_

_“Sorry ma,” he apologizes, catching the packet and turning to Bucky. “It can’t have been that bad.”_

_“He yelled at me, Steve. Pa _ _ never _ _ yells at me, not even that time we snuck out for Ronnie Johnson’s back roof party.”_

_“Bucky!” Steve hisses, glancing side long at his mother._

_“I yelled at you for that one, Steve, you’re fine.” Sarah comments coolly from where she's frying bacon._

_“Oh okay.”_

_She hums, “In all fairness I yelled at the both of you enough that George probably didn’t think he needed to.” She considers before going back to the original conversation. “Some people aren’t the best teachers when it comes to these things.”_

_“Mr Barnes is normally a good teacher.” Steve disagrees, “he teaches better than that jerk over there does on a good day if we’re stuck on something.”_

_“Oh, _ _ you wish__, Steve. That’s the last time I’m helping you catch up then.”_

_“When did you even get here? It’s _ _ seven in the morning __ Go home jerkface.”_

_“Driving is different.” His ma interrupts, voice raised only enough to be heard over them. “Does your ma know how to drive James?”_

_“Urgh,” Bucky ponders, his thinking face on. He starts swinging his legs so they bat against the cupboard doors. Sarah whacks him subtly with a spoon so he stops. He begins to drum his fingers on the counter instead. “I think so. Yeah, I think she used to drive a Stephens Moline - I think her father brought one to tow the trailer when a bunch of the horses died. Apparently. A bit weird if you ask me though, cause why would you pic--”_

_“James.” Sarah cuts in calmly, hand up until he stops, “Ask your mother to teach you instead - she might be a cooler head for those types of lessons.”_

_“A cooler head - _ _ ma? _ _ We are talking about the same woman, right?”_

_“Yes James,” Sarah sighs, “Just ask her, I’m sure your uncle would let the two of you borrow his car for a few afternoons - he’s in town isn’t he? It’ll probably be easier than driving a Jeep.”_

_Steve had watched Bucky think about it for half a second, but then stubbornness persisted. “Nah. I’ll take the subway.”_

_Steve groans again. His ma says: “Then take the subway out of my apartment and stop avoiding your own.”_

_“Urgh, fine." Bucky laments, sounding over dramatically put-upon. He steals a rasher of bacon from the pan as he goes, grease all over his fingers. “But it’s bath day. I hope you understand the battlefield you’re sending me into here.”_

_“I’ll pray for your survival.” Steve offers, hand over his head. “Now, _ _ get out. _ _”_

When they get out of the truck they conceal it under twigs, herd the prisoners out, and make them carry the crated equipment for them to the open door of the plane waiting in the hanger. There’s a pilot, two soldiers, and _Howard Stark_ waiting for them.

“Whoa, what are you doing here?”

“Fancied a ride, pal.” Howard fires back, grinning. “There’s nothing like flying through German airspace to get your blood pumping.”

“Sometimes I think you have a death-wish.”

“Bit harsh.” Howard disagrees, pulling a face.

“How about reckless attitude then?”

“I’ll take it, but two for two, pal. I didn’t kiss another woman in front of Carter.”

“Hold on, he did _what?”_

“Shut up, Bucky.” Steve says quickly.

“No I _will not_ shut up what--” His voice cuts off as Gabe slaps a hand over his mouth to stop him talking. What follows is the sound of several scuffles.

Steve grins at Howard, but also at the show of support for him and against his best friend. “What are you really here for?”

Howard practically saunters over. He motions behind him so the soldiers start leading the prisoners onto the aircraft. “Wanted to see what presents you brought me back first things first, and - we have a change of plan - for you. Not for me, I’m going back to my lab.”

“Urgh yuck!” He hears from behind him, “did you just _lick me_? You _fucking asshole_ Barnes, wh--”

Howard continues, “I take it your first mission was a success?”

“A roaring success, mate.” Monty says to the side of him, leaning on a ladder, smirking, and looking appropriately (but also far too) smug.

“That’s what we love to hear - which is exactly why you’re carrying on, not heading back with me - when in Rome and all that.”

“When in Rome what?” Dugan asks, “Last I checked we were in France.”

“And you’ll stay in France,” Howard explains, “for a few weeks at least - Peggy’s getting more intel on the base in Belgium - she’ll be in touch, but until then Philips wants you here on the ground in Northern France.”

“In Occupied France, you mean.” Dugan corrects him.

“Exactly - disrupting phone and supply lines in the meantime.” He hands Steve a map and a manila folder wrapped in a protective seal. He folds the map open on the wing of the plane.

“Is there any more equipment?” One of the soldiers asks the group as Steve begins to observe it.

“Morita, can you show them to the truck.” Steve orders over his shoulder, and waves Bucky whose recovered from his licking revenge closer. He’d thought about it again with a push from Vaughan but stuck to his guns, and Buck’s still his go-to-guy no question. He shoves Jones off and glances almost shyly at Howard as he stands next to him; Steve swallows back a smirk and tells himself to focus, and ignore any celebrity starstruckness Bucky is exhibiting. He hasn’t really been around Howard like Steve has yet, and Bucky's always had a ‘thing’ about science and slotting things together - machinery or buildings.

The map is of France as promised, with several markers on - in stars, squares, circles and triangles, followed by a key on the side explaining; supply lines (H next to those for Hydra), stocked Allied safe-houses, other bases and places of interest. There’s further hand-drawn lines that look like lightening bolts in twos moving up and down the country that signify the escape lines the French Resistance use and a vague route Philips would like them to make their way to on the Franco-Belgium borer. There’s red dots marked down on particular places Philips wants them to hit - a bridge, a communications tower and several weapons and food supply lines. “Of course, you have leeway to hit anymore that you may so wish to on route, if you’re feeling an extra party.” Howard adds.

“How long do we have until he needs us at the border?”

“Depends what Carter can get - but two to three weeks - tops?” He says, “she’s generally very on top of things. Just a warning - they’ll probably keep you on the ground after Belgium too - that’s that’s the going rumour I’ve heard from the officers anyway - for lack of ferrying you lot back and forth.”

“So we’ll need to resupply at some point just in case.” Bucky says.

“I’d imagine so,” Howard shrugs, “you’re the soldiers, I just build the weapons.”

“You do a little more than that Howard.” Steve laughs.

“Peggy keeps telling me I need more humility in my life, so I try.” He quips, “It’s not really agreeing with me though, so I might as well sack it.”

After that they leave with a slap on the back for Howard; they're long gone and on the road again by the time the plane sets off, loud and spluttering. Within an hour the area is crawling with patrols all speeding towards the airfield on the chase for where a unidentifiable plane appeared from - so they abandon the roads and hit the trees and fields. They drive the truck into a ditch - toss branches over it and siphon out any left over gas from the engine. They trek the rest of the way - North-West towards the first mark on their map.

Even at past midnight, when they’re still moving in the dark, Steve is still giddy with success.

. . .

The first is a communication tower.

Dugan snorts and Falsworth lights up a cigarette behind a rock. “We’ll leave this one to you, shall we Captain? I know you like your watchtowers.”

“Remind me why I brought you again?”

“For the fucking great company.” Dugan ruffs out.

He turns to find Bucky in the group of thoroughly unhelpful soldiers. “Will you cover me while--”

Bucky’s already thirty yards away and halfway up a tree with his Springfield rifle.

“I’ll take that as a yes. At least one of you is worth the shoes you walk on.” He jokes, and Dernier hands him several charges and explains how to use them but steps back, and when Steve raises an eyebrow at him too, he argues in French that he missed the inhumanly act with the last watchtower; so he’s getting his dues in now. Jones, the only one bar Bucky worth the lot pitches in; and follows at his back; on the ground while Steve heads up._ Jones,_ Steve thinks, _what a great guy. The pinnacle of a true friend. What would I do without him?_

A solider goes down in front of him with a crack of glass behind him; the bullet spiking the air to his right side. He flinches back minutely; thinking, _I had him Buck, bloody hell. _

_But you’re okay too, also the pinnacle of a top-notch friend. The best, the greatest, if slightly too overprotective. Bucky Barnes, what a great guy._

. . .

The boys are off their asses and pitching in the next day, _hallelujah_, and Bucky whacks him on the hip as if to remind him he has a gun there and to remember how to use it.

“I know.” Steve retorts stubbornly to the unsaid accusation.

. . .

In the nights pitched in the cold tents in the cold Scottish mountains during the training, and now, in muddy France, they all huddle together for heat. Steve doesn’t need the body heat but is happy to share. It’s not a position he’s been in before, with people needing him and him not needing them. Oh, he needs them all right for the war to do their jobs - however he doesn’t need them physically for his own sake. He’s had this body for nearly half-a-year, and yet he still feels like he’s discovering new things about it everyday. In the US on the tour - outside of sneaking off to boxing gyms to exercise - he felt too mixed up to notice and experiment outside of the first few weeks of his new state in life. He enjoys it for the most part - individual and independent as he’s never been before.

. . .

Within a week and a half of leaving Scotland the commandos have come up with an entirely new rendition of ‘Star Spangled Man with a Plan’, more aptly named ‘Star Spangled man with a Load on’. They’re conducting a new song entirely of their own making which currently has no rhythm or pace - as none of them bar Bucky have a musical bone in their bodies - but has wickedly dirty lyrics that Steve still blushes over a little when he hears a verse. They make sure he’s not left out, but if Colonel Philips asks they have no evidence whatsoever to prove that the lyrics of -

_ ‘When Captain America throws his mighty shield, there’s a joy _

_inside that his eyes can’t quite conceal!_

_Every time he heads, with a force so brute,_

_He’s in ecstasy and must change his suit! _

\- comes from his truly. If it comes down to it Falsworth’s the unlucky sod to be thrown under the bus, as Steve takes great delight in telling him.

. . .

Steve still feels like he was making it all up as he goes along some days, without any cue cards to help him stumble through the tongue twister of ‘a bullet in your best guy’s gun’ but those days are becoming less and less. He learns to think first of what the men need and last of himself. He learns to delegate, to keep track of the rota of who takes which watch. To tell by observation how much more the men have left in them.

Where Bucky talks less, Steve talks more.

Bucky always volunteers for extra - more watches at night, more scouting missions and so forth - than his share. He pushes to take point at the front more often than not when they marched. Steve fights back on that, hating that he has too, but is neutral as he says, “No Sergeant, Falsworth takes point today.” or “No Sergeant, I’ve got it today.”

“You don’t shoot the first guy, you shoot the second. So it’s your risk.” Bucky retorts back like that’s a real argument.

“No. Falsworth has it today.”

“Come on, mate.” Falsworth says, slapping him on the shoulder, “share the load.”

Bucky agrees, but to Falsworth and not Steve. The rest of the time he allows Bucky to take them, to keep him occupied and out of his head, but only so much. He doesn’t try to hide that he’s doing it, because lying has never worked before with Bucky when they are actually face to face. Thousands of miles away and with paper and pen are different. Every time Steve pushes him back on an offer to scout, or hunt, or take point he gets a weird distant look in his eyes like maybe he understands the situation. Steve thinks at first, _is he taking on so much to prove himself?_ Especially now Steve has made it plain as anything that “Sergeant Barnes is my second. Monty and Dum Dum, you’re my thirds. Joint.”

_Is he trying to prove he’s worth the faith Steve’s put in him? Is that where the problem with Dugan has come from, a sudden territorial thing?_

He shakes the thought off; Bucky’s not an animal, pissing around to mark his territory with Steve, though sometimes it does feel that way a little, Steve has to admit to himself. Not forgetting that the issue with Dugan has been going on for longer, and he doesn’t hold Falsworth to the same standard.

_Or is it just so simple as a determination to distract himself?_

. . .

Leisure time is already hard to come by, and so on the nights when they deem it safe enough for a camp fire they crowd round and trivial things become the go to.

When the topic turns to romance Steve generally tries to tune the conversation out - as he has nothing to say and too much to think about with the next raid coming - so he gets out his maps while the boys wax wise. Bucky often drops down next to him, crossing his legs under him and running over the plans with him until there’s nothing left to talk about and Steve’s feeling sure and confident. Bucky’s a great bridge most of the time too; which is what Sergeants are supposed to be - but Steve’s the most grateful for the quiet moments he takes with Steve; checking in; even if Bucky uses it sometimes as an excuse to escape from the group conversation also.

“Do I want to know what they’re talking about now?” Steve asks quietly as Bucky sits down on the East side of the map.

“Something about a dame, chocolate, an’ strawberries and cream. Monty’s story.”

Steve huffs a patch of laughter out, “Why am I not surprised Monty’s story involves _strawberries and cream_.”

“Boarding school education for posh twots, what can you do? You’re not that far away, what, you not listening? I know you can hear them.”

“Tuned them out a while ago.”

Bucky hums, motions to the map and asks: “What are you stressing about now then? Don’t tell me your moxie is failing you.”

Steve laughs, “No, not at all. It’s nothing - we’ve been over everything." He assures, then admits: "I kinda’ got it out just to look like I’m doing something.”

“_Oh._ Avoiding the boys, are? Or avoiding having to talk about Carter with them?” Bucky carrels, calling him on his shit immediately. Steve glances at him. “Yeah that’s it, for sure.” Bucky adds the second he gets a look at Steve’s face, “You’re so obvious pal, it almost_ hurts_.”

Steve can hardly argue it when it’s true. “Yeah okay, fine. It’s my thing to tell - not that there is anything yet.”

“Uh-huh, _sure, _big guy.”

“There isn’t.” Steve stresses, lying just a little. “It’s ongoing but - I don’t feel right talking about her like that - it’s a matter of--”

“--Respect.” Bucky finishes, leaning back on his hands. “I know. Good for you. I’d expect nothing less.” He rolls his eyes as Steve gives him a look. “Steve,_ it’s you_. You’ve never been one to brag about your exploits.”

“Except the part where you’d need exploits to begin with.” He throws out quietly.

“Yeah true,” Bucky says, “maybe not the womanly kind - but again, it’s you. On the rare times that you actually won a fight you didn’t go blabbing about it either - it’s not that different.”

Steve shrugs, accepting it. He nudges Bucky with his foot. “What about you, not feeling up to it either?”

Bucky shrugs back, mirroring him with a small smile. “Figured I’d join you in your wallowing instead.”

Steve gives him a flat look; throws his own words back at him. “Uh huh,_ sure, big guy_.”

Bucky ignores him, “We still heading along the orange line?” He asks pointedly, gesturing at the map to the colour coded pencil lines, drawn over the top of the map to signify their new and old routes.

“Yep, same as yesterday; towards Saint-Dié, cross the Rue Marie bridge, blow it - then onto the other supply lines while we’re in the area; steal a truck - keep moving and head up to the border. Plan hasn’t changed. I’ve got a mind to…I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“Sweet.” Bucky says, “I’m looking forward to hot-wiring something new.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “Of course you are. See if I was a worse man I’d brag about how much better at it I am than you, but like you said, I am a better man than most.”

Bucky snorts, “You wish.”

“I don’t need to wish. I _am_ better than you.”

“I’ll gain on you then, until we switch.”

“It’s nice to have dreams Buck, but it’s better to have dreams you actually have a chance of accomplishing.”

His friend laughs quietly, looking closer at the markings on the map. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You want to talk about anything?” Steve asks after a second, observing him carefully. His under eyes are dark, almost shadowed again, and he’s holding his body almost deathly still in his position; whereas fourteen years next to him nearly every day have told Steve that’s not his normal. Bucky constantly fidgets, shifts or loosens his muscles out, or he used to, even when he was languid and sleepy on the couch after a long day of dock work. He used to sit still, mostly, in class but that wouldn’t stop him drumming his fingers on the table while he thought. The times he used to be still like this were during times of immense focus - when learning something new he hadn’t quite worked out yet, watching a boxing match, or when he was behind his rifle before Steve arrived overseas.

It’s not an uncommon sight now, the stillness, but Steve can’t help but feel discomforted by it when it sticks out like a sore thumb to him. The other don’t notice really, but they haven’t known his friend as long or as deeply as he does.

The only time Bucky seems to move any less than carefully controlled now is in sleep; where he twitches wildly; but Steve doesn’t like that either as it’s involuntary and looks almost painful sometimes.

“Like what?” Bucky asks back, deflecting. “The way you hit that---”

“Not about that.” Steve interrupts, “and you know it. You know what I’m asking.”

Bucky sighs tiredly, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

_Hardly_. “Isn’t there?”

“No_pe_.” He says, lips popping on the _p_.

Steve sighs this time, and just says the truth he’s been wanting to for weeks now. “You’ve been quiet for a while now. You know me so well but I know you too Buck, I know when something’s up. Are you okay?”

Bucky throws his arms up, about to shrug, but seems to forget his weights resting on them and overbalances; dropping backwards for a second. He rights his body and rolls his eyes at himself. “I’m fine.” He says, “What’s there to talk about?”

Steve holds his tongue for a moment, then doesn’t. “How about what happened in the base, we haven’t talked about that yet.”

Bucky’s hands tighten in the dirt, clenching into the fallen leaves. Steve’s eyes flick briefly down to them. He makes them return to Bucky’s face, looking him in the eye. Something bright and taunt has entered them to the point it looks like they belong to another person entirely.

“We haven’t talked about it because there’s nothing to talk about.” He says, voice force-ably flat. There’s a faint twinge in there, that Steve hears, where he hasn’t quiet managed it. His face on the other hand is carefully schooled. It changes slightly as he adds, almost an afterthought. “And how could we talk about something I don’t remember?”

_You don’t remember __anything__? Not a single thing? _Steve is about to say_. _How about the doctor’s name he doesn’t know that Steve knows, but that Steve’s sure he _does _know but told Steve he didn’t. _How about where this dead British solider came from in Scotland when you __blindsided__ Vaughan with it? How about all the things you twitch and dream about sometimes?_

“Hey lovebirds!” Gabe calls to them, laughing and comfortable. “You wanna’ cut your little date short and come and join us over here?”

“Some of us are trying to entertain,” Falsworth adds, “and you two spilling your deepest darkest secrets in private over there is bringing down my audience numbers.”

_More like keeping all the deepest _ _darkest_ _ secrets in._

Bucky stands, “Only cause you asked so nicely Jones. And jealousy doth not become you, Major Ritzy.”

“Oh please, you love it.” Dugan says, patting the space next to him. “Half of all the stories we got from you were of skinny Rodgers, you barely talked about anyone anyone else. Even when he got a letter from a gal called Clara.” He laughs; the second half to the boys, and Bucky’s face sours, which is a change as normally the jokes don’t bother him.

“He was around for most my stories, so yeah, he’s in them. It’s a little hard to cut him out.” Bucky replies and sits in a spot furthest away from Dugan. The man notices it; _yeah oh yeah he notices it_, and Steve winces and makes a point of sitting in the still empty spot as something hard comes over Dugan’s face.

“You got a letter from Clara?” Steve asks, forcing himself into the here and now. “Wasn’t that the girl you had the date with the night before you shipped out?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, “You mean the _double date_ you bailed on me for to lie - what, the sixth time? - on your forms.”

“Fifth.” Steve corrects, “And it was a fair. I was trying my luck; which I would not have got with the other half of that double date. You got two for one, so be grateful. You went dancing, right?” Bucky nods, and Steve adds, “Bet you’re glad I bailed on you now though, since thanks you to I met Erksine.”

“How thanks to me?”

“Yeah, how thanks to him?” Gabe adds.

“Collect rubble in my little red wagon? There’s so many important jobs? Any of that ring a bell?”

“The red wagon comment was yours.”

“It was. Said Sarcastically. You agreed very unsarcastically.” Steve fires back, lip quirked, and explains to all the boys. “He heard us arguing in the lobby about it, my asshole stubbornness about shipping out too must have rubbed off and made an impression. Flagged my four other attempts_ like that," _He clicks. "I thought for sure I was done for when the MP came in.” He laughs, “So thanks, pal. Captain America is at least a little bit down to you.”

“Great. I’m _thrilled_.” Bucky motions sarcastically, but Steve can see he’s joking, shaken off from their previous conversation. Now, surrounded by the boys and the fire, is not the time to bring it up again.

“To be fair he did tell us about that French girl.” Gabe throws out.

“Français fille?” Jacques asks, interested, whose picked up on understanding English quicker than the rest of them have picked on French so far. “Qui est cette charmante Français fille?” (****French girl? Who’s this lovely French girl?)****

“Il n’a pas dit qu’elle était adorable, Dernière.” (****He hasn’t said she’s lovely yet, Dernier.****)

“Elle est Français, donc bien sûr qu’elle est adorable. Le plus beau - nous sommes appelés la langue de l’amour pour une raison, vous twot.” ****(She's French, so of course she's lovely. The loveliest - we are called the language of love for a reason, you twot.)****

Bucky laughs, “Her name was _Colette_. Et elle était adorable, oui, Jacques (****Her name was Colette. And she was lovely Jacques, yes.)**** The loveliest, in a lot of ways.”

“They never stopped eating each others faces, so it wasn’t so lovely for me.” Steve throws in.

“And that, gentleman, is jealousy in it’s rawest form.”

“Oh _shut up._ You were far to pleased with yourself the entire summer you were together. If I heard one more comment about what she taught you to do with your mouth and _what she did with her mouth_ I was ready to take our train money and leave you stranded and penniless at Coney Island.”

“Which was why I trapped you on the Cyclone.”

“Yeah, and that ended well for both of us, didn’t it?” Considering Steve remembers throwing up in a trashcan while Bucky laughed at him, yes, but also throwing up on the stuffed monkey Bucky had won to take home to Colette that same day.

“Still scored that night though, didn’t I?”

“You scored nearly every night if memory serves. In his own words,” Steve says to the rest of them, and then again in French for Jacques after “’she’s ensuring my education is complete, you’ve got to admire her commitment to her craft.’ He was sixteen - she was nineteen and I still don’t know how he pulled it off.”

“Natural charm.”

“Natural teenage hormones more like.” Dugan jokes, and Gabe laughs and continues relaying to Dernier.

“They left in the middle of a movie once to get _popcorn_, and when I came to look for them twenty minutes later they were rutting with her skirt up behind the building against a wall. They were ridiculous for months.”

Bucky scoffs loudly. “Don’t lie, you little shit. You didn’t _come looking for us. _You started a fight in toilets and decided to take it out the side door so you wouldn’t get kicked out.”

Morita snorts, “That true, Cap?”

“Yeah okay, that might be a little true.” He admits.

Bucky throws out. “I still don’t know how the Bride of Frankenstein ends.”

“Neither do I.” Steve laughs, “I was too busy trying to bring the swelling down on my eye before my ma could see to go back in. _He_, had no sympathy whatsoever.”

“You interrupted a perfectly romantic moment, so no, you didn’t deserve my sympathy.”

“Unlike you Colette did help me ice my eye to be fair to her.”

“And I’ve never heard you quieter." Bucky remarks. "You didn’t say a single word, unless you count going tomato red as statement in itself, which it sort of was. She asked me after if ‘red face’ was another one of your ailments it was such a solid declaration of your embarrassment.”

Steve laughs and defends, “I was sixteen and had never said more than two words to a girl before then; and her skirt was still ridden up; tending to me. Also, you were _leaking through your pants._ It was burnt into my brain for months. You practically jumped her again the second I was home and out of eyeshot, and nearly fell down the stairs.”

“Thought you were out of eyeshot?”

“I wasn’t out of _earshot_. And McMullen’s mother saw you, gave my ma, and then me, a right talking to like we were responsible for your teenage horniness.”

“We were warmed up. Weren’t gonna’ waste it, were we?” Bucky defends.

“Jesus Christ guys,” Gabe laughs, “where were you two whenever I came for a visit in New York?”

“Probably getting beaten up in an alley.” Steve admits freely, and Bucky points, agreeing with him. “Or a park. Or the toilets. Or anywhere really.”

“Ha!” Dugan laughs next to him, slapping his leg. He lights up a cigarette, and elbows him. “What about you Cap? You’ve heard about our dames, wives and sweethearts; you got yourself one?”

“No. Not yet.”

Dugan grins at him, winking. “Exactly. _Not yet,_ Cap.”

. . .

Dernier quickly and efficiently hot-wires a supply truck the next day, and Bucky isn’t the only one who complains that he went too fast to follow - and tell Steve they’re going to steal another just for the sake of an actual lesson this time.

Steve rolls his eyes, “We’re not stealing another one just for the sake of your criminal education.”

“Why not? They’re German trucks, not civilians, we don’t care.”

“Exactly. _They’re German._ The Army might notice if two go missing, and knowing you lot you’ll see a tank or armed one and take your chances on that just for the hell of it.”

They would, and their only argument for not feeling guilty about it is that they haven’t had a chance to commit it yet.

“Big stakes: big wins.” Dugan says at the same time as Morita says:

“Can’t blame us for having dreams, Cap.”

“Just get in the truck.” He says dully.

“Sir yes sir Captain Fun.” They retort sarcastically but do as they’re told, concealing themselves behind the canvas.

“I think they forget sometimes that we’re at war.”

“Bright side:” Jones says, about to climb in too. “At least in the front you can ignore them for an hour or two.”

“Downside,” Bucky fires back, “_we_ can’t.”

They drive on, Falsworth at the steering wheel; Steve in the passenger seat. He dumps a German hat and helmet on Falsworth’s and his own head as they close up on the small checkpoint; elbows the back rack to silence those hidden behind the crates. He sits on his helmet and Monty’s red beret.

They slow, Monty yells “_Lebensmittellieferung_” at them in perfect gravelly German, followed by the password from the set Peggy sent them spanning sixty miles of the base. They wave them through the checkpoint. They approach the bridge and Steve shrugs the shoulders of the jacket off his uniform, picks up the charges by his feet; checks the side mirror.

“Now Cap.” Falsworth motions, and he bangs on the back rack too. Steve flings himself from the moving truck, running right as Gabe goes left from the back. He jumps the wall, sticks a charge to the stone of the first bridge leg with the sticky squishy explosive Howard himself invented, triggers it and runs back, jumping into the still open passenger seat silently. He checks the mirrors and Gabe’s leg also disappears back under the cargo flap as he returns; the guards at the checkpoint still with their backs to them. He glimpses the faint line of a wire appearing back on the river bank below them from the water when he looks over the wall. They’re waved from the checkpoint on the other side. They keep driving at pace.

Eighty eight - eighty nine - ninety - _bingo._

The bridge explodes with a loud boom and splash. Rubble rains down into the water - and a second and third blast echo out and up as Steve and Gabe’s charges ignite on the first leg of the bridge. He looks back and the centre and the first half of the bridge are gone, the leftover German’s are shouting, and Dernier runs out of the trees onto the road - Bucky’s arm swings out the flap to pull him into the back.

“Whoo!” He hears Dugan cheer, and Monty hits the gas, speeding down the road. They’re out of range by the time the German soldiers on the second side have the chance to fire at them.

“Nicely done Jacques!” He calls into the back, “Tu as bien nagé?” (**Did you have a nice swim?**)

Jacques laughs in the back, “I went fishing _mon ami_, as you all took your sweet time!” He calls back and Morita swears as he must shake his hair out, flinging river water onto him.

With one quick diversion off their original path they’ve taken out a weapon supply line and a German phone line that ran along the bridge then back underground in one go. Steve grins, feeling accomplished.

. . .

The boys start calling Steve ‘Captain Nag’ and call Bucky ‘Trouble and Strife’, occasionally throwing out ‘the old married couple down the lane’. Monty becomes ‘posh twot’, Jim becomes ‘hoochman’, Dernier ‘boomtastic’ and Dugan becomes ‘moustachary’ which he complains about endlessly due to the lack of originality.

. . .

_09TH JANURARY 1944 - ADMIRMAL RADIO (CBS) - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA._

_World news today, brought to you by the Admiral Corporation; makers of Admiral Radio; America’s smart set. By shortwave broadcast direct from important overseas stations as well as leading news centres of our own country. CBS _ _correspondents_ _ are waiting to give you a complete report all things political and battlefront. But first, here’s Doug Edwards:_

_DOUG: The Allied 5_ _ th _ _ Army in Italy has thrown back the German _ _counterattacks_ _and has cut deeper into the army defence lines around Casino, the _ _strategic_ _town guarding the Ron-de-Rown. In Russia, the Soviet Army have smashed within striking distance of three German escape railroads, and the fall of Solany and all of Poland seems _ _imminent_ _in the next few months._

_British _ _mosquito_ _ bombers were over German targets again last night. And in the far Pacific marine jungle fighters on New-Briton island have made new gains in the face of strong Jap opposition. Now for our first news direct overseas - Admiral Radio takes you to CBS Algeria; Winston Debeck reporting. [CONNECTION FIRED]_

_0:56 - 1:06_

_[STATIC]_

_DOUG: We regret that we are not able to make contact with Columbia’s _ _correspondent_ _in North Africa. However for home-front news Admiral radio takes you now to Washington. Don Pryor reporting:_

_DON: Congress goes back to work tomorrow after the holiday…._

. . .

They’re in the middle of nowhere, walking among a copse of trees lining boxes and boxes of fields and farms. There’s brown splatters of dirt and craters where shells must have been dropped; and a large skid mark on the side of a hill. There’s a blackened husk of an plane laying at it’s end hidden among long overgrown grass; it looks several years old, but obviously no one’s touched or tended to the area since. It’s a smart move, who knows what could have been dropped when it went down, but has yet to be set off. There’s a few sheep he can see in the far distance, grazing, and the figure of a plumpish woman sweeping the deck of a farm house.

The rattle of a train speeds past on the other side of the sparse woods, and Steve listens out to work out what direction it’s going in. He checks his watch, writes down South and 15:23 in each column he has in his notebook. He returns it back to his pocket; and checks the position of the sun. It’s a particularly cold week, the chill beginning to catch even him. The cover of the trees haven’t helped much; as where they can escape the whistling wind within them, they can’t escape the temperature rising from the hardened ground. It rained yesterday for several hours, and their boots and socks are still damp; while their back’s are wet with clammy sweat. Their truck ran out of petrol two days ago while they were busy criss-crossing over the country.

“God, I could use a good shower.” Dugan groans, “who would have thought I’d miss that piss cold shower block in Achaherry.”

“Would you rather be hosed down like in the factory?” Gabe says, “we could recreate that for you if you like.”

“Yeah, lets not.” Bucky says from behind him. “You stink, I stink, we all stink. Get over it.”

“Alright Mr Sensitive, only trying to lighten the mood here.” Dugan defends a little more sharply than he normally would. He’s been getting more prickly too, with every dig Bucky makes. Steve, like the rain, is getting a little sick of it.

There’s something akin to a sob. He holds out a hand, and they stop behind him; trusting his ears more than their own. He ducks down onto his haunches and they follow until they're sure what it is.

“It’s probably an animal, Cap.” Morita tries to reassure after a moment when Steve tries to listen out further. It’s not the first time an animal has spooked them, but they can never be too careful this far behind enemy lines. He hears it again, and a rumble he didn’t pick up before; but realizes has been there for a while.

Steve knows what an animal sounds like, and that; that sounds like stuttering gasps that don’t come from something on four legs. There’s a engine running.

“Tu es jolie, n’est-ce pas ?” (**You’re a pretty one, aren’t you**?)

“Tha - Je dois y aller. Je t’ai dit que j’avais la corvée.” Comes a French female voice, nervous, and sounding rather young. (**Tha - I must go. I told you I have chores--)**

“Jolie voix aussi, ne pensez-vous pas Frances?” (**Pretty voice too, don’t you think, Frances?**) The man cuts her off again, and another one hums in agreement. A branch snaps, the girls voice sounds more to the right, towards the fields again, as though she’s backing off.

“Ma mère m’attend à revenir - s’il vous plaît je dois y aller.” (**My mother is waiting for me - please, I must go.**)

“Pourquoi ne pas venir avec nous, chéri.” The harder voice says, “Allez, monte dans le camion.” (**Why don’t you come with us, darling.” The harder voice says, “Come on, get in the truck.”**)

“Rodgers what is it? What can you hear?” Falsworth asks, and they’re looking at him in confusion, frowning. Bucky’s frowning, but not at him, head cocked, like he’s trying to listen to what Steve is.

“Non I--” The voice is more panicked, something is dragged across the ground. “Arrêter!” (**Stop!**)

Steve takes off at a sharp run; the girl starts shouting; and the commandos already trying to keep up to Steve by running at full pelt, hear it too. 

“Nous sommes Resistance, nous sommes votre peuple. (**We’re Resistance, we’re your people.**) The same voice says, followed by grunting and yells.

“Maman!” The girl screams, Steve breaches the treeline, and two men; with a running dirty pickup truck, are in front of him. They have the girl on the ground as she struggles, tearing at her clothes. She can’t be more than sixteen, they’re in their forties. He tackles one clean off her, slamming him into the ground. He shoves the other off with one hand halfway into the tackle and the man smacks with_ thwack_ against the truck, groaning. He stands, pulls his gun out; and is surrounded by the commandos. Falsworth has shoved himself between them and the girl on the ground, who is scrambling backwards to the treeline; obviously terrified.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Falsworth growls at them, and Steve stands, towering over the man on the ground to step towards the man hunched over but still standing. He can feel himself shaking with anger. The man swings his sidearm at all of them.

“Qui sont, Anglais, non- Américains?” (**Who are - English, no -American’s?)** The man bites out, recognizing the accent most of the commandos are yelling at him with. “Que fait American ici?” (**What are American doing here?**)

Dernier starts snapping at him in rapid fire French, so the other's silence themselves and the man barks back, looking back at his unmoving companion Steve has knocked out with one hit. It goes back and forth, the man swings the side arm at Dernier, and they all cock their weapons in warning, and the man drops it.

“They--are Resistance.” Dernier translates.

“I heard.” Steve growls out in French, and the man’s head snaps to him, then shrinks at his size. “Just because they’re Resistance doesn’t make it okay to attack a young girl. Where were you going to take her?”

“Just with us.”

“With you where?” Steve takes a step towards him, he suddenly swings out a knife. Steve knocks it away with ease, slamming him against the side of the pick-up. The man hangs from his collar, feet of the ground. “You will not ever touch her, or any other girl without her constant ever again. Do you understand me?”

There’s not a lot he can do, aside from killing these men, and, as awful as they are - he can’t do that. He’s not going to allow himself to get drunk on power like they just did. He drops the man back to his feet, hits him twice. He tugs him back to his feet and growls out, “Take your friend, and get the fuck away from here. Now.”

He scarpers, grabbing his friend and dragging him into the car. He runs back to grab his gun and Bucky levels his at his head, he backs off without it, gets in the car and goes. Steve’s turns back to the girl, and crouches to join Falsworth closer to her height on the ground. She’s shaking something fierce still, but staring at him in wonder, and seems to realize they’re not going to hurt her when she accepts Falsworth’s jacket over her shoulders.

“Helene!” A rather portly woman comes running up, gasping, with a young boy who outpaces her. He’s short and gangly, and he tries to shove Steve and Falsworth away from what must be his sister. The mother, the figure Steve saw sweeping he realizes, grabs the girl and drags her away from them.

“Non, no, maman.” The girl calls, and the woman sweeps her hands over her cheeks and covers up her ripped skirt. Steve and Falsworth back up, hands up, to make it clear they mean no harm.

“Put your gun down for fucks sake.” He hears behind him, and several clicks echo around him as his men put their safeties back on. Dernier crouches down to the same level, and he takes over when the girl looses her place and starts crying. The woman continues to look very suspicious, but the girl must get something out to reassure her. She points to Steve and Falsworth, with a shaking hand, mumbling into her mother’s bosom.

The mother clings to her daughter, but reaches one hand out to take Steve’s, and squeezes sharply to say thank you. Steve thanks God for his ears, for his whole body for being able to stop that. It’s not the first time he’s gotten involved in something like that, but it’s the first time he’s been able to stop something so suddenly in it’s tracks.

“Je vous remercie.” The mother murmurs to Steve, and then to all of them. “Je vous remercie” (**Thank you. Thank you.**)

“I am Elodie, please, please come back to my farm.” She says after a while, as her daughter finally starts to relax. She sends her younger son away, and he goes sprinting back to the farm to put the kettle on. “You saved my daughter. Let me repay you.”

They refuse at first, as they should keep going, but the woman insists - and so they relent.

. . .

When they’d left London there had been Christmas decorations up - homemade small garlands hanging in the archways of the underground bunker. He’d completely forgotten what month it was, really, until he saw them.

Churchill’s orders apparently; to keep some semblance of morale high for the eighteen hour days people spent underground. Why the aides, guards, politicians, officers and secretaries would have higher morale with a twig of mistletoe hanging in the storeroom didn’t make much sense when they couldn’t spend it with their families, but Steve supposes it’s the thought that counts.

Since the base and the ensuing celebration, and with the orders to stay on the ground Steve, though he’s been tallying the days, it seems has lost track of them in relation to the actual calendar. They’ve barely stopped moving, hitting as many targets as they can until now. It turns out it’s a been eight days and nine nights since Christmas Day when Elodie brings them back to her farm, and secretes them away for a well-deserved dinner as payment for saving her daughter; grateful and appreciative. It’s January, a new year.

_“I’ve grown used to the Boche soldiers marching through, but not American and my own people,” she'd kissed Jacques on each cheek, and continued speaking on quick French. “It is important that you come in.”_

_“That is alright my good lady,” Dernier replies in matching rapid, but soft, French, as Gabe translates quietly to them. “You should be careful, we are behind the line, if they catch you helping us the--”_

_“Oh bosh on that!” Elodie says, cutting him off, and spits in disgust on the ground. “You saved my eldest girls virtue, you are coming in and you are eating. Come quickly if it concerns you so, but you’re coming in!”_

There’s still a few green dried garlands up, and the woman’s nephew secretly breeds rabbits for extra meat under chicken hutch and under the farmhouse foundations; which Elodie is mixing into a stew. It smells amazing as she whips it up; and she refuses them trying to help with the ingredients from their rations. She’ll have nothing of the sort; and assures them they have enough food, being so far out their crops and animals are not bothered often, and so if needed they can always butcher one of their birds. They’re one of the luckier families.

“It is hard work,” she tells them through Gabe and Jacques, “to handle the farm without my husband and father - he has been sent to the factories as he’s too old to serve, and I’ve lost several dozen of our sheep, but we cope. The young’un’s help but I’ve let them off for a few days longer than I should. That’s why they’re still up,” she adds, motioning to the grass and paper garlands over the fireplace and the Christmas oranges on the table. “I’ve been out; no time to take them down.”

Hélène seems, of course, almost infatuated with Steve now despite him being nearly a decade older; sticking close, asking him questions and thanking him profusely over and over again. She spends the entire time close to a very deep pink going on scarlet as she does, and Steve spends half the evening politely and kindly making conversation and corralling her hands away.

“This is a good thing,” Clément, the thirteen year old brother says, “It’s shut her up about Théo since he had to run off. She wouldn’t stop. All it was was Théo this, Théo that. I nearly squirted her with Bessy’s milk when I was milking her last week - she’s impossible.”

“Théo?” Falsworth asks in amusement.

“Neighbour boy.” The grandmother answers from a chair in broken English, knitting, and then has the gall to roll her eyes.

“Nana!” Hélène shouts, shocked at the betrayal.

The older woman scrunches up her nose. “You can do better.” She utters honestly, then mutters “mais pas si bon que” (****“but not that good”****) under her breath afterwards in relation to Steve. He and Gabe are the only ones to hear - him with his good ears, and Gabe as he’s just below the lady at her feet; helping her untangle her wool. He snorts very unsubtly. Hélène looks over at them suspiciously, but then returns her undivided attention to Steve, and then Falsworth when she realizes she’s getting nowhere.

The six year old Marguerite, curly hair tied up in a ribbon in the meantime has latched onto Bucky as if she could sense deep inside herself that he knew how to plait hair. The eleven year old has been assigned to chop vegetables. Dugan’s been loaded with the the babies, one of which is having a great time playing with his moustache and laughing hysterically as the man blows raspberries on the boy’s belly. He’s holding down the three year old with a foot as Morita tickles her incessantly. It -- it feels very special, even if it’s not Christmas anymore and they’re not really part of this family - they’ve been welcomed as if they are.

Louis, Elodie’s barely sixteen year old nephew returns from working the land and stops short in the door at the sight of the entire lower floor of the farmhouse full of soldiers and wriggling children. He freezes for a moment, hears Jacques’ language and their American accents, realizes they’re not German; shrugs and walks inside to steal a slice of bread as if this is an entirely normal day. Elodie slaps a towel against his hand and he rolls his eyes, splashes water onto his face to wash off the dirt.

“Hands too you hooligan.” Elodie adds, “then bread. _Un _(One).”

“Tu ne vas pas demander, mon garçon?” (“****You’re not going to ask, boy?****”) The grandmother queries as he does so.

“Aunt Elodie has lots of friends, maman always says.” He replies, in French back. ”She likes strays. It does not surprise me to see she has adopted seven stray soldiers now.”

“Oof.” Elodie huffs, and whacks him again, but with amusement this time. “He thinks he is a comedian, this one does.” She tells the group and they laugh, “How were the fields?”

“Frozen.”

“The sheep?”

“Woolly.”

“The cow?”

“Milky.” He retorts, chomping on some bread as if this is a daily tradition. “Maman says to stop stealing her butter by the way.”

“Tell your maman to stop stealing my flour then. And we’ll see.”

“You could both stop stealing off each other, you foolish girl.” The grandmother says, “bonne douleur.” (“Good Grief.”)

“We wouldn’t be sisters is we didn’t steal from each other.” Elodie waves off and Bucky snorts and Steve grins, because boy does that sound familiar. Sisters are the same it seems on both sides of the pond.

The eleven year old suddenly decides to solidify that assessment as she starts complaining why she has to chop vegetables when the older Hélène doesn’t.

“Because she’s had a nasty shock today, Brigitte, good god.”

“Yeah, she looks it.” Brigitte mutters venomously as Hélène continues to smile dreamily at Steve and Falsworth.

“And so this is what Clément made me from stuff he found, look, it’s a toy seed drill so I can work the land with mama.” Marguerite tells Bucky very importantly, giving him a tour of what she got in her Christmas stocking. She’s already gone through two tiny cards, a knitted hat, a wood spinner top she’s sharing with Clément and a doll her mother made her from straw and a left over kitchen cloth.

“Oh wow,” Bucky replies in French, sounding effectively amazed to Marguerite’s immense approval, “can you show me how to use it? I’m from the city so I don’t know these important things you do.”

“Of course!” Maugueritte half shouts, and gets right down to it, taking Bucky’s hand and demonstrating it on the rug. She then makes him do it; then tells him no, he’s doing it “_all wrong._ It’s like _this! Look!”_

She’d started off speaking in forcefully slow French at first after being told by Jacques that they’re all terrible; but Bucky is better than most at this particular language and she’d quickly forgotten when he made a point of replying in well-pronounced French. He seems to be keeping up; and looks incredibly natural surrounded by dolls and sticky hands, but of course; he would. Steve would too to be fair, having babysat the twins with Bucky more than a hundred times over, certainly more natural than being ogled by a very pretty, but _very young_ fifteen year old girl. He’s a little jealous honestly.

“Did you know,” Bucky says, “until I came over here I’d _never _seen a cow before.”

It’s a lie, sort of, because the first time he’d seen a cow was on the train en-route to winter training in Wisconsin in the October of 1942 - Steve knows because Bucky wrote him vigorously about them; not knowing they were ‘that big.’ It makes a clear point though, as Marguerite gasps as though someone’s just told her that St Nick, the Santa Claus isn’t real; it’s distinctively so shocking.

“Maman, _never take me to the city_.” She calls, very seriously. “I want to stay with Bessy the cow.”

“Of course dear, whatever you say.” Elodie calls carelessly back behind her.

It’s quite amusing to realize half the boys aren’t keeping up with the quick family back-and-forth aside from he, Gabe, Bucky and of course Jacques, whose deep in conversation with Elodie - but that was why they’d been given the babies. It’s also a shame really, because they are really missing out on something special.

“And I also got these.” Marguerite continues, once she’s recovered from the shock. She’s pulling out three coloured animals that look as though their images cut out of a book, mounted on card, and then attached to wooden bases. They consist of the animal itself and half and inch or so of grass or rock below them which has also been cut out; they stand up straight so Marguerite can bounce them across the floor in make-believe games. They’re quite beautiful really. Marguerite bounces them across the floor and lines them up so Bucky can see - and explains, “This is a lion. This is a…um…”

“A Tiger, Ritti.” Hélène reminds her, and turns back to Steve to tell him: “She likes animals, so we thought we’d teach her some new ones.”

“A _tiger._” Marguerite continues, “and this is a bear.”

“That’s a lovely idea, Hélène. They’re great - did you make them?” She nods, blushing. “Really imaginative, I wish I could have thought of something like that when I was younger at home.”

“Where is home, Capitaine?”

“It’s Steve, Hélène. You can call me Steve. And New York.”

“_New York?! _What’s that like?” Because she’s obviously interested Steve tells her about Times Square, the milk bars, Broadway and the Bridges instead of the overcrowding, the crime and the sometimes less than stellar streets. He’s in the middle of it when he hears Bucky’s voice again.

“A bear. So that’s what a bear looks like.” He says, quieter,_ in English_, and it’s a weird sentence but he’s also said it in a weird way with a weird look on his face. Marguerite luckily doesn’t seem to notice.

“Lets play! They can have a fight, they can battle to save Margot!” The little girl replies, bouncing excitedly on her knees from Bucky’s lap, and hangs her doll Margot headfirst off the table in a precarious trap. “She’s stuck in a tree, I have to help her!”

Bucky blinks, and is back. ”Not if I save her first!”

“We’ll see about that!” She fires back just as quick. Steve gets a sudden flash of Jenna at the same age, sat on Bucky’s lap right before the twins started a horseback war, sitting and slinging themselves off both his and Bucky’s backs. He keeps talking to Hélène, but keeps one eye on the game as the baby howls again with another raspberry. “I want the lion. Who do you want? The bear?”

Bucky blanches a little again, “How about the tiger? If that’s okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Marguerite answers, handing him the tiger and lining up Bucky’s hands with it. “But my lion is going to win.” With no warning she launches into battle, and attacks Bucky’s hand and tiger with a roar.

They all have to break - from battles, raspberries, tickling, untangling and shutting down blushing teenagers - for dinner, which as Steve thought, is glorious. They sit at an actual wooden dining table with real if mismatched cutlery. Elodie serves them tea or coffee afterwards at her instance, and Jim throws in half a bottle of whisky he’s sequestered from god knows where - adding shots to the coffees to make them Irish. With that volunteering he becomes the new favourite of the grandmother and Gabe is kicked to the curb. It’s a nice ‘Christmas’, even if they’re at war.

Elodie saves Steve with a roll of her eyes at her daughter and decides Hélène has recovered enough from her nasty shock to clear up and wash the dishes. Clément is sent out for more firewood and Brigitte grins successfully at her win; leaning back against her grandmother’s chair and whistling mockingly at her older sister. Marguerite refuses to speak to anyone but Bucky and their second battle to save the damsel doll ends with her lion attacking Bucky’s face instead of his tiger.

“Marguerite!” Elodie snaps when she see’s Bucky land on his back in shock but Steve waves her off, laughing.

“He has three sisters. This is nothing, he’s used to getting attacked with twice the force. Think of a dozen shaken sodas, with the volume of three banshees wrapped in the bodies of two twins girls and you’ve got a fairly good picture.” Elodie laughs and lets it go when she hears Bucky laughing himself and tells his friend not to go easy on the little brat. After all is said and done Steve decides, and calls: “Hey Marguerite.”

With the French picked up quickly, the little girl spins between Bucky’s outstretched legs. “Did you know he knows how to braid princess hair? He’s_ amazing at it.”_

Bucky glares at him with utter betrayal, and it’s only Marguerite astonished cheer that saves him from calling Steve an asshole.

. . .

Elodie insists they sleep over too, and when they all refuse, absolutely not taking the families’ beds, she insists they sleep in the warm dry stable instead. They accept, and they help Louis lay new straw down in the clean stalls for them to sleep in before he goes home to his own mother whose been out on house calls until now. Steve asks him about the railway lines that run several fields down from Elodie’s farm. He gets the answer he’s hoping for.

. . .

10TH JANURARY 1944 - ADMIRMAL RADIO (CBS) - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

_Stay tuned for the news. [STATIC] _

_World news today, brought to you by the Admiral Corporation; makers of Admiral Radio; America’s smart set. By shortwave broadcast direct from important overseas stations as well as leading news centres of our own country. CBS _ _correspondents_ _ are waiting to give you a complete report all things political and battlefront. But first, here’s Doug Edwards:_

_DOUG: Leading the news today is the announcement that General Eisenhower has arrived in Britain to take over command of all forces for the invasion. And in French Morocco, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, completely recovered from his illness, has conferred with French General De’Guilde. On the _ _war-front_ _ American troops in Italy have captured Mon-Serento, the main barrier blocking their way to the fortress of Casino. The Germans report a break in their lines by the new Russian offensive in the Monen-Groude area. And in the Pacific the Allied ground troops push against the Japs on New-Briton and New Guinea and _ _continue_ _ at a slow pace. Now for the news of the fighting in Italy, Admiral Radio takes you overseas to Algeries. Winston Berdet reporting._

_WINSTON: The Americans and Allies have captured the last hill barrier between them and the Rapido river….[STATIC]…fifteen hundred feet high, two miles this side of Casino, fell to our troops at nightfall yesterday after a rough twelve hour fight….[STATIC]…._

. . .

“How’s the hay treating you Cap?” Morita asks dully to his side, as Steve shuffles again on the bed of hay and straw. A horse snorts in another stable a few doors away, and when Steve looks over Morita’s sat in the main walkway with an eyebrow raised. “Doesn’t look like it’s agreeing with you. You planning on getting any sleep anytime soon?”

He snorts, then sighs again, then gets up with a huff to join him on watch. “Can’t settle it seems.”

“How's that; we might be surrounded by manure but Christ, we’re not sleeping on rocks for once.”

It’s a fair point; they’ve gone sans tents tonight and half the boys have practically buried themselves in piles of straw. They’re stomachs are full and heavy with rabbit broth, chicken pieces, bread and several smatterings of greens thanks to the incredible generosity of Elodie. They’re protected by walls _and _a roof from the weather and surrounded by the warm body heat of the surrounding animals. For all intents and purposes Steve should be revelling in the warmth and catching his eight hours. “Maybe it’s the irony of it, now that we finally have it.” He says, folding open his map and compass again to track their progression across the country.

“Don’t tell me you can’t work out where we’re going?” He jokes.

“Hilarious Jim.” Steve intones, “I’m just thinking about the best route in and out.”

“In and out?”

“Of the city.”

“Not around?”

Steve shakes his head. In particular he’s looking at the railway lines etched in blue and red, and how many cargo trains he’s heard go past in the valley further below. He’s thinking of his options and has been writing down the times so he knows the schedule and directions. He’d like to stop in Nancy, or _Nanzig_ as the Germans have dubbed it after taking it, briefly as the SSR have a safe-house they can report in further and resupply at; and there’s more information that moves among city folk than there is with farmland folk. He just has a feeling he could find something of interest there - an instinct - and the safe-house would provide more of a secure line than their carry-on radio for further intel. The railway just below them runs to a drop off station in Laneuveville-devant before carrying on or diverting away from Nancy. They could hitch a ride and stow away, jump off at the cargo drop-off and trek the rest of the way in and do the same back out. Or they could steal another car or find more petrol for the truck they already have and make their way in that way; and put up with the checkpoint. Nancy apparently so far has hardly been touched, but it’s still very much occupied. The trains though…it would be the quickest way, and being this close to a potential safe-house is extremely convenient while they’re here for a stock up. It’s not essential before they move on but--

“Cap.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re thinking too much again.”

Steve huffs, running a hand over his prickly jaw with a laugh; being able to, and having the opportunity to grow stubble now is a strange thing. “Right. That obvious is it?”

Morita shrugs, puffing on a cigarette; looking out the stable doorway onto the French farmland. “You have a look about you.” He explains, “You get a frown and you’re eyes start darting; like you’re minds going a mile a minute. Hey! Shoo!” He suddenly calls, waving off a chicken that’s trying to cluck it’s way over Steve’s map. “Whatever you’re thinking just stop, man. Go with your gut - it’s normally right. Would you shove off, you stupid bird.”

Steve laughs quietly and helps him chase it off, catching it so it doesn’t squawk and peck at him, and popping it into an empty stall when it won’t stop. Morita’s laughing at him by the end; especially the way he waddled with his arms held out straight in front of him, dodging flapping wings and shushing the thing frantically. “I think that proves I’ve never been a farm hand a day in my life.” He jokes as he sits back down; accepts a couple of drags off the cigarette Jim offers to him to finish.

He puffs it experimentally, slowly, inhaling and breathing out; waiting for his lungs to catch. It never comes, just like it never came in Scotland where he dared to have his first ever real cigarette. His experience with asthma cigarettes are the only reason he didn’t embarrass himself on the first and second drags - already knowing how to inhale. Throughout the months that he was on tour he hadn’t touched a stick, rolled or straight, even though he could;_ not wanting to smoke it alone out of fear maybe? _Just inhaling second-hand smoke used to set him off sometimes; and so Bucky had never taken to it out of solidarity; but Steve had learnt in the first year of their friendship not to go out in the Barnes’ small garden in the evening if Bucky’s father was back from base; and his friend Bertie from his life drawing classes always made a point of going outside. The times where Bertie_ did_ want company more whilst he smoked, usually a drink or two in or when he was riled up and ranting about something he’d seen in the paper - he used to shoo Steve back at least three feet and yell his sentences at him over the space.

Steve with his bad ear spent half that time repeating “What?” at him anyway; so it’s both an amusing and annoying memory. He smiles when he thinks of it; and how when he’d given up and just come closer so _they could actually have a conversation_; Bertie would shout “Ah ah!” at him and bounce back as many steps as Steve had taken forward. He swore off all their smoking sessions together completely after Steve had his first proper attack in front of him and the gang at an afternoon party; which was one of his worst to date; and one that had left him on a nebulizer for several days, and in the hospital for a week. Nothing in particular had set him off then, as far as he remembers - which is not much, but Bertie drilled down on the seriousness of his health almost as much as Bucky did after that.

He wonders where his friend is now; on the coast of Italy or England or _France _\- maybe they’re both here in a miraculous coincidence; him on-shore and Bertie a hundred feet below water off-shore. Or the Pacific, Bertie could also be in the Pacific with the majority of the submarines; he's not sure - they’ve been out of touch for a while now - and Steve can’t blame Bertie for that. That one's on him and his own stupid stubborn jealousy when Bertie got a 1-A and Steve got himself a 4-F after trying to enlist together.

“This is so weird.” He can’t help commenting quietly.

“What?” Morita asks, “the cig? Not up to your usual fancy fags?”

Steve laughs at the very thought of fancy cigarettes, “God no." He explains. "I used to have asthma.” Jim’s eyes widen as he understands. All the commandos have been briefed on Project Rebirth and the serum of course; have seen his original enlistment photo after they requested to; have heard Bucky’s tales of his ninety-five pounds soaking wet asshole exploits, but haven’t heard the full explanation of his previous ailments. “Just someone smoking around me could set it off sometimes, and asthma cigarettes aren’t the same; taste, texture; everything. And now - nothing. It’s just weird. Guess I haven’t completely learnt about my new body as much as I thought.”

“The fact that you call it a ‘new body’ is a little weird.” Morita comments, and Steve’s neck heats up in embarrassment. When he glances at Morita, almost shyly, about to pull on his sleeves he realizes the man doesn’t mean it in a bad way. Jim’s looking out into the countryside again, staying alert, so he hasn’t noticed the flash of upset that came across Steve’s face. “It’s just crazy is all,” he continues, “that that’s a thing that happened in our time - it’s insane when looking at your old photos with how much you’ve changed.”

“Yeah.” Steve comments, not really knowing how to continue, because while his body feels and moves wildly different; in himself he feels the same if…maybe he feels things a little _more_ than he used to. Like Bucky said with his almost binary moral compass; the right and the wrong - his scope of feeling is just _extra_ too._ The serum amplifies everything_, Erksine had said. He’s not entirely sure if that’s real or in his head; psychosomatic, like several doctors told his ma he was about his asthma at first, but it's something he's more aware of. That was how he got labelled with nervous trouble on his medical records. His ma used to march out and roll her eyes when any doc’ even got close to mentioning that, because “_that boy, with the amount of trouble he gets in, is the least ‘__nervous__’ child I have ever met__ in my life.__ He’s not making this up.”_

There’s a faint rumble, and he stands quickly, climbing up onto a barrel and then the edge of a pen door to make himself taller. He does it quietly so he doesn’t wake Dernier and Falsworth sleeping in that stable pen. He spies the brief flash in the trees, tracking the direction of the train, and returns to his map and compass. He routes in the back pocket of his suit, pulling out his tiny black flip-book - opening it up to the page with a list of times and directions. He tracks the direction on the map; back down from Nancy to Besançon at 01:04 hours.

Morita watches him note it down, and plucks the cigarette from Steve’s mouth as it smoulders down to the very end in his preoccupation. “Watch your lips Cap, geez. Just cause you can’t burn your lungs now doesn’t mean you have to go out of your way to burn everything else.” 

“Ha. Thanks.” Steve mutters, grinning, as Morita makes sure it’s out completely and safely in the dirt. He dumps it in a tin after to make sure it’s away from the hay.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Morita ventures, “the doctor who…” he waves at Steve, “did this, his formula, what was he like? Being German and all.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, “Like a lot of other men.” He says, “just because he was German doesn’t mean he was a certain way. He was a genius, funny too and a good man. A very good man, if desperate to be successful in his work - in his own very particular way.” With distance, Steve can very much see that now. “It was the only thing he had left in the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told me once that what a lot of people tend to forget is that the first country the Nazi’s invaded was their own. He was a refugee, and he was Jewish. He and his family were caught trying to cross the border to Belgium when they started segregating the Jews, and were split up. His wife and son taken away, while he was forced to continue his work for Hydra. They told him that if he didn’t they’d kill his family but…they’d already died in a ghetto camp a year before he got away. Hydra were just using the love he had for them. He didn’t know until Agent Carter told him when she rescued him - she was the one who convinced him to get his revenge by switching sides instead of throwing his life away that night in vengeance. I read his file, after.” Steve sighs, “He was a great man, and I’ll always be grateful to him for what he’s done for me. He didn’t deserve what happened to him, but at least he’s with them now.”

Morita hums, and seems to veer himself up for something. Steve watches him carefully, feeling like something’s coming. “It’s awful.” He says, “what they’re doing to the Jews in the ghettos and the work camps. But they’re not the only country doing shit like that.” He utters and Steve thinks at first, Romania and other Axis countries, but then freezes; feeling like this is something else. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out before Morita continues. “First country they invaded was their own, huh? Sounds awful familiar to what happened to the neighbourhood I grew up in right after I shipped back out.”

Steve’s very quiet for a long moment as that revelation hits, at what Morita’s just insinuated and invested in him. He asks, a little hollowly. “Do you mean the U.S?”

Morita stares out at the sky, “My mother was four when she arrived in the States with her family. My father’s father arrived when he was nineteen from Japan; my father was born there so was I and my brothers - and my sister. We’re American citizens - second and third generation. It didn’t stop the government from rounding them up in camps too, six months after Pearl Harbour. We thought our family would be safe; but we were wrong.”

“Jim I’ve--they’re just evacuations,” Steve starts warily, “I’ve never heard anything--”

“About military camps?” Morita says quietly, “You wouldn’t. Barely anyone would. They’re not reporting it; so no one knows about it - the company line is _evacuations for the safety of America -_ so lets face it; with the shit going on right now; who cares enough to fight about it? Two thirds of the country probably agree with it. My parents are in a camp called Mazanar, my little brother’s been split up in another camp - I don’t know where - with my aunt. The only reason I know that it even happened is cause my sister got out and hid before they could grab her. She sent me a letter in a letter, hidden in a wrapper of a chocolate bar last year. She’s in Mexico, hiding. Her best friend’s parents hid her and then helped smuggle her over the border to make sure she got out safe. I’d never liked her friend up until then; now that girl’s my favourite person in the world. My sister wanted to go back for Mom and Dad, or Howie, my little brother, but she was too scared. She’s fourteen Cap, younger than Hélène today. Fourteen. My eldest brother serving back in Italy almost deserted when he found out he was so angry.”

Steve can’t believe what he’s hearing, it’s surely so impossibly impossible - they’re at war but the U.S are supposed to be -- their own country, _the country of immigrants_, couldn’t be doing that, could they? They’re supposed to be better.

“You’re se--” he cuts himself off, “Jim, I’m so sorry. That’s not right.”

“Yeah, well, I guess me and your doctor have some things in common after-all - and it’s not the genius part.”

Steve swallows, head still spinning. “I wouldn’t go that far - I’d say your pretty close to genius with a radio.” He tries to console.

Jim gives him a stiff, flat look. ”Was that your attempt at making me feel better?”

“I know. I’m terrible at it. I’m so sorry Jim.”

“You are a bit, yeah. But thanks for trying, Cap. And for listening to my shit.”

“It’s not shit, Jim. It’s your _family _for Christ sake and nothing justifies - I don’t even know what to say - if it’s true and they’re backhandedly trying to cover it up as something else- which they must be cause I had no idea.” He hisses out a “Jesus,” unable to believe how so solely invested in the war and his own position on the tour he was to miss this happening on the same soil he was walking on. Christ, with the rallies he used to go to he _should have known about this. _It’s hardly the first time rich powerful men have lied to disguise bigotry. “For the record, it’s disgusting. And I’ll always listen. Can you write your parents?”

“Tried. Didn’t get anything back. Albert and Johnny didn’t get anything either when they did the same. Al’ got a response from my aunt whose looking after my littlest brother - but their camp is a little more lenient than most apparently. God knows anything else. You and the boys ‘cept Gabe are lucky you’re white, that’s all I’ll say.”

The horse whinnies again, and the wayward chicken clucks in it’s Steve-assigned prison.

“Sorry.” Morita utters after a while. “I kinda brought the mood down, huh?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Don’t lie Cap, you’re terrible at it when you don’t have cards in your hands.” He says. “It’s only, my face kinda’ caught flack in my last unit - way more this time round after the Harbour - so I didn’t really think anyone would listen. Figured you might be a safe one to air it out too.”

Steve nods, feeling rather honoured at that. “I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to.”

They make comfortable conversation for another hour; Steve notes down another train speeding across the country, and offers to take Gabe’s watch when Morita finishes his in an hour and a half.

“You sure about that?”

“Why not? I feel like I’m not going to settle and I don’t need as much sleep as the rest of you. Another perk to the serum.”

“_Ooh lucky you_,” Morita mocks, “no need to rub it in.”

“There’s no fun in it otherwise.”

Morita snorts. “You want another cigarette?”

Steve hesitates and Morita adds, “to share if you like. I can never finish a full one - my dad would be ashamed of me if he could see me now.”

“Yeah alright. Might as well let myself feel like the rebellious teenager I never was.”

“Ha!” Morita laughs quietly, mood cheering, as he lights the smoke. “I don’t believe that for a second from what I’ve heard you got up to. Barnes said your record was fighting three people in one week alone.”

Steve takes a drag. “Four actually. And that’s four _fights…_with multiple people.” He admits, not ashamed whatsoever. “I didn’t tell Buck about the last one.”

“Exactly my point, Cap.” Morita points, “exactly my point. Responsible teenager my ass.”

“Hey, I never hung round the bike racks to smoke. Or drink. Much.” He keeps admitting, “And I was only involved in a riot at a rally once.”

“You know you’re not really helping yourself here, right?”

“To be fair that one wasn’t my fault.”

“That _one?_” Morita blurts incredulously.

“The other one doesn’t count in this - I wasn’t a teenager.”

“Fuck my life.” Morita hisses, laughing. “How are you even in one piece?”

“I like to think by Gods’s pity,” he laughs, “seeing as he slugged me with bad lungs, heart, back and everything else - it’s only fair he threw me the occasional bone.”

“From the state of you now I’d say he threw you ten.”

Steve huffs, “Yeah. I’ve been thinking the same thing; I should do my _Thanks be to God's_ really; make sure He knows I’m grateful. Howard would argue that it’s all just science but--I don’t think he’s ever put too much stock in it so…and anyway, it’s not his body.”

“That bother you? That he’s not a believer and you are?”

“_God No_.” Steve breathes, finding it funny. “I grew up with _Bucky _whose never given the Almighty _one ounce_ of slack no matter how much the nuns tried to shove it down his throat everyday; or how much Father Matthews used to lecture at him about it. He used to get; ‘has all the words but none of the follow-through’ and I used to get; ‘has the spirit and soul of thy Lord but the mouth of an annoying knat.”

Morita laughs, “An annoying knat?”

“I asked a lot of questions,” Steve explains with a reminiscing smile, “As in a_ lot._ Buck made it worse - ‘cause they stopped putting up with his crap when we were thirteen knowing it wouldn’t be something they’d like. Used to come at him ready with a ruler before he even opened his mouth. I had the decency to at least raise my hand, and tailor the questions so that they were actually _‘questions’_ and not unhelpful comments. Used to spout off his nonsense for him sometimes to keep him shut up so he wouldn’t get whacked.”

He can’t help but shake his head at the memory of ‘_not sure I’m about this __sacrifice__ m’larcky’, ‘I wouldn’t want Abraham as a parent if he tried to kill me for bragging rights on __obedience__, _and ‘_god forbid Samson cut his hair - what a twit - send him straight to the flames’ _followed by the usual_ ‘James Barnes I will not tell you again!’ _

He particularly remembers the _‘You said that last time and you haven’t hit me yet so I think I’ll keep going.’_ Steve hadn’t known whether to be horrified or to start crying with laughter at his daring, and had no sympathy whatsoever for what followed.

Bucky was unpopular with the nuns, but loved by the majority of the teachers; all the academic ones anyway - normally the top of all his classes. Steve shrugs, smiling softly at the memory.

“Everyone believes what they believe, who am I to tell the that they’re wrong. _I_ could be wrong. Faith is faith at heart, and everyone has their own relationship with it. Don’t get me wrong I follow the Testaments, but the Bible does have it’s flaws. It’s not supposed to be taken literally - I don’t think anyway, I mean, otherwise me eating shrimp for the first time on tour would have been a sin. Bucky always likes to say that the Bibles brutal and harsh, but it’s also filled with love for the world. That’s the part I care about,” he says, then admits, “I tend to ignore the other parts.”

“Ah.” Morita comments, nodding. “God on your terms instead of you on his.”

“Something like that, yeah.” Steve shrugs, “I repent when I need to, or when I feel like I should, even if there’s not a Confession box or priest close. Faith’s faith.” He repeats, taking back the cigarette to breathe in the tobacco again. “People judged me my whole life, so what right do I have to judge them - believe what you believe; Catholic, Protestant, Hebrew, the earth and sky, science, booze, money - whatever. Everyone has an opinion.”

“And you and Barnes are Catholic, right? Irish Catholic?” Steve hums. “I thought so,” Morita says, “there’s a lot of Irish in New York, right? That and Italians.”

“There’s a lot of everything in New York.” Steve laughs, passing it back. “My ma was Irish, my pa too I think, but most of Buck’s recent family is from Indiana. Got a bunch of extended relatives out there still. What’s Fresno like? You know, before.” He cuts in awkwardly, “One of the USO dancers was from California - said she’d never seen snow before she got to on the road.”

“Well yeah. It’s California, Cap.” Jim answers, smirking. “It doesn’t snow in California.”

Steve shrugs, “Hey don’t look at me, the furthest I got growing up was _Jersey_.” He reconsiders, “No, I take it back, the Hampton’s once.”

“Sunny, a lot of hotels, lots electric streetcars - especially downtown where I lived. It's close to Yosemite Park too; so we went out there a lot."

"Nice," Steve says.

"Yeah. But going back for a moment - ooh.” Morita then mocks, “the _Hamptons,_ look at you posh boy.”

Steve laughs again, “No just - no, I’m part of the cockroach building generation. Bertie, a friend of mine had a lot of family money. He took us out there for my birthday once. Fourth of July.”

“How do you even meet someone with ‘family money?”

“_Art_ class.”

“Art class? So that’s what your always doing in that book - drawing--no hold up, wait, go back again.” Morita suddenly says, hands up as if to stop him from talking even though he’s silent as a fox. He asks, flatly, disbelievingly. “You’re birthday’s on the _Fourth of July?”_

Steve groans, “Yeah, I know. Okay, I know.”

“Wow, _Captain America._ It really must have been fate. Your birthday’s the Fourth of July, absolutely unbelievable.” He scoffs.

“It’s just a coincidence.”

“As if,” Morita scoffs again, counting on his fingers, “Godly, patriotic, wears the American flag on his back, notorious fighter for the downtrodden and downhearted--”

“--Urgh Jim stop--"

“--the underdog, born on the _Fourth of fucking July --_sounds like destiny to me.”

“Yeah okay,” Steve relents, rolling his eyes. “If you say so.”

“I do. And a good man of course, we can’t forget that.”

Steve huffs, but feels a pit of warmth heat up in his stomach when he looks back at Jim, and squints his eyes teasingly suspicious. “You’re being far too nice - what do you want?”

“That obvious is it?” Morita asks, winking.

“You have a look about you.” Steve throws right back.

The work horse whines loudly behind them, Topper, Steve thinks he’s called. He kicks the stable door with distress. Steve turns to look to see him shifting back and forth on big hooves, huffing clouds of cold air out of his nostrils. He whines again, knocking his hindquarters against the empty tray of hay.

Steve stands and goes to soothe the creature before he wakes one of the boys. “Hey hey, sshh boy. It’s okay.”

“It’s probably just a bird or something. There’s one nesting in the eves above him.” Morita calls quietly.

“Ssshh _sshh_.” Steve repeats, stroking a hand down his muzzle and along the side of his neck. He still finds it so neat to be near such a powerful creature. He’d of course seen the milk horses, and the riding horses every which way in Texas and Oklahoma, but he’s never really been physically around animals that aren’t stray cats, rats and pigeons. And Topper is even larger than the milk horses, taller than him, a purebred shire horse; black and white with a think mound of hair cascading down his neck, over his behind and over his hooves. He’s amazing to look at, even more so to touch. He whines again. “Hey.” Steve calls - he kicks the stall another time.

Abruptly Steve realizes he’s not the only one whining, and the horse whinnies again, lashing his huge head to the left, knocking against the wooden bars separating the pens as if he’s trying to tell Steve something. He hushes the horse again with one hand and peers through the bars and corner of the next stall alone. Dugan is snoring quietly in the corner of a new bed of straw under a blanket, turned away, and it disguises it at first but then he hears an upset “no please.”

There’s a sharp whine, not from Topper and Steve hears it now coming from deep in Bucky’s throat. The straw rustles and there's a thud on the wall between the pens - not from Topper either - Bucky’s almost thrashing, fighting against his bedroll tangled round his legs and one arm.

“No, stop,_ please_. Bear _bear bear_ \- it’s a bear. I’m trying please. No no _nonono no, not again._”

_Oh Christ,_ Steve thinks, and leaves the horse and crosses straight to the next pen and through the open area. Bucky's backed himself up against the wall so he didn’t see him at first, but he sees him now.

“I’ll be good I’ll be good - I’m try - _BarnesSergeant3245-_\--” And _that’s it right there._

“Buck hey, you’re safe. You’re--”

Before Steve even goes to touch him his mind whispers _mistake_ but his gut and heart has the power here. His hand closes on Bucky’s flailing forearm - his eyes fly open - and Steve’s on his ass on the floor. Bucky has his Colt M1911A1 levelled at Steve’s head, gun cocked and safety off. His finger’s a breadth away from the trigger. He’s looking at Steve but he’s not looking at _Steve. _Topper neighs and kicks at the stall - Bucky swings the gun at the horse.

“Whoa whoa!” Steve calls, trying to be calm, hands up - and the guns back on him. Bucky’s eyes are glassy, and_ god he’s absolutely shaking. _His finger twitches, Steve freezes solid in his bones, heart beating a mile a minute. “You’re fine, hey your--”

“Cap--”

“Stay over there Jim.” Steve orders sharply at the man whose stood up in confusion in the doorway. He must catch sight of Bucky’s head and the straw sticking up from his bedhead hair through the pen bars.

“Yo Barnsey.” He calls, “ You’re awake too huh--whoa Cap--_hey-_-”

“Jim,_ stay over there_.” Steve orders again, quiet but firm at the heart of his panic and Topper’s huffing, hands still up.

“Cap,” Jim says warily, but good on him, calmly. ”He’s got a gun on you.”

“I know.” Steve replies, “but we’re good. Aren’t we, Buck? We’re fine.” He pushes, and shoo’s a lone hand in Jim’s direction, “go back on watch. I’ve got it. It’s my bad, I startled him, that’s all.”

He’s done more than just startle him for sure, and Jim knows it too considering Bucky’s still pointing the gun at him, and doesn’t look like he’s close to putting it down. He hears a faint clatter as Jim lays his Thompson back onto the ground, but Steve only has eyes for Bucky. His hand shakes; finger twitches.

“Bucky.” He says very lowly. ”It’s me. You’re in France. You’re with us, the commandos; _me._ You were just dreaming. You’re safe.”

He makes a very slow movement, crawling up onto one knee, and then onto his feet. Bucky’s hand jerks, but he doesn’t follow the movement; the gun now pointed at his stomach instead of his throat. His eyes are now darting between the space on either side of Steve’s head, and his panting breaths are slowly growing calmer. “You wanna’ point that gun away from me, pal? I’d appreciate it.”

Bucky’s hand shakes, and he brings his other hand up to cradle the barrel sharply to steady it - eyes flicking from Steve’s ear to chin to Topper - muzzle shoved round the corner bar. He freezes on the nostrils blowing clouds of warm steam. “_Bear-bear-bear_” Steve realizes he’s whispering under his breath for some reason, “not dog not cat, has to be a bear. _Bear, a bear_\--”

“_Bucky._” Steve says again, firmly, and Bucky’s eyes flick back to him. He blinks, and his eyes clear.

He drops the gun sharply with one hand and swings it down into the straw, falling back on his haunches - flicks the safety back on. “Shit _shit shit_,” he hisses, turning off sharply from the…woodland animal he was mumbling about - _what?_ “Oh god, _Steve_. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, _shit_\--”

“You were just dreaming.” Steve says quietly, coming closer. “It’s okay. That was my fault.” - even though it wasn’t really, but he knows Bucky’s going to start a cycle of self recrimination otherwise - “I startled you when I tried to wake you. You were--you were having a nightmare.” Topper whinnies next to him again.

“Oh.” Bucky mumbles, body starting to calm with his breaths. “I’m sorry, I didn’t - I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Steve reassures gently, “I was already up. You didn’t wake anyone, ‘cept maybe this big guy here.” He motions a thumb at the horse to the left.

Bucky nods, “Okay. Okay, good.”

_No, not good Bucky,_ Steve thinks, _it’s not good that your only concern is if you woke someone with what looked like a horrifically deranged nightmare. You just pointed a gun at me, and almost fired - more than once. That’s not okay…how many nightmares is this now_? The first that Steve’s had - and yes, he had to - wake him from so far, but that’s only because normally by the time Steve realizes Bucky’s having one his friend’s already woken himself up with an aborted shout or gasp. Otherwise he’s quiet, silent almost as he dreams; twitching and flinching in his sleep.

“Do you know where we are?” Steve asks, just for something to say. “We’re in France.” He answers his own question when Bucky falters, then nods after Steve’s said it.

“France.” He mutters, untangling his blanket from his legs, not looking at Steve. He scratches his arm straight after and Steve clasps his wrist to stop him; or tries to - Bucky jerks backwards at the touch.

“Sorry.” He mutters again, and forces himself to stop scratching with an almost constipated frown. Steve purses his lips, thinking as he always does whenever something like this happened - to the room he found Bucky in; the ‘medical' ward.

“What the hell did they do to you, Buck?”

Bucky sticks the tip of his tongue out to lick the blood away from where he’s bitten his lip like it’s nothing. He looks at Steve, “I don’t…I don’t remember.” He answers with the faintest of shrugs, and tucks the gun he almost shot Steve with right back to where it was. He curls up again, hand still on the barrel.

. . .

Steve lets the boys know the new plan to head into the city. According to Steve’s schedule there’s a train running into Nancy at 10:23, which slows in the valley as the track changes course.

He, Bucky, Dernier and Dugan climb up the side of the train at a sprint, and hop a ride to the city. The other boys keep watch at the farm, and help Elodie out where they can before they come back - raking the cold frozen land with the younger boys and fetching the chicken’s eggs as the Brigitte milks the cow.

An hour before they leave Bucky is side tracked by Margueritte running up to him with a handful of wildflowers that he then dutifully braids into her hair in a crown. He does the same for Brigitte when he catches her smiling shyly at him, but in a more elaborate braid he’s seen his ma do for Becca’s hair on her first school dance. He tells her this one is very grown up, and weaves wildflowers into the strands so they stand out purple and pink against her blonde hair.

Steve changes his clothes to civilian ones, as does Dugan; though they stay armed. Luckily, as they don’t exactly have a uniform the majority of them can pass without getting changed. They’re in and out of the almost untouched city; walking among French civilians and German Guards, and hit the safe-house for supplies as Dernier heads to a stall to buy a newspaper and listen for anything they can find. The city itself has never been bombed, and is practically untouched in terms of damage; the only sign it’s occupied at all is the occasional guard and the Nazi propaganda posters.

The Resistance and SOE spy ‘White mouse’ has been there recently, on her way to Marseilles as part of the Pat O’Leary Escape Line - with seven downed British pilots is the talk they hear. She’s flown right through to the next and remained as elusive as ever, much to Nazi consternation. They grab intel, and radio in their coded position - thirty minutes later, as they’re going through available false identity papers hidden under the floorboards - the cat meows and the fax starts spewing the coordinates of the new target. They correlate with the map; and it’s in Belgium; which is what they’ve been waiting for; the next Hydra base - this time one of the large factories on Steve’s remembered map. The preferred approach is faxed to in a combination of numbers; which Steve will crack when they get back.

There’s whispers in the town market that there’s been a leak - a Resistance member captured outside Versailles, but it’s something that happens far too often. Bucky is satisfied he gets his chance to practice hot-wiring another car, a Chevrolet, and they drive back with their goods and supplies; looking over the French newspaper in the back.

They wish Elodie and her children good fortune with kisses on each cheek and drive through the night, as Steve sits in the back with a torch cracking the coded fax with the list of keys phrases until he finds the correct one. Gabe switches him out at 02:00, and tonight with the jolting of the vehicle he manages to sleep.

He doesn’t remember how or when he went, but knows he was on his side, and he was watching his friend.

Bucky’s back to the silent twitching, and Steve doesn’t know if he should wake him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As aptly named - the Howling Commandos have howled their way into Europe with a big bang! Hope you enjoy the chapter, please feel free to comment and let me know what you think, or if not, no worries to that either. Stay Safe all x
> 
> REFERENCES:  
MOXIE: Courage or strong nerves. So Bucky teases Steve if he’s lost his courage.  
RITZ / RITZY: Slang name for someone who’s posh. Falsworth is Major Ritzy.  
BOCHES/BOCHE: boche is a derisive term used by the Allies (mostly the French) during World War I and World War II, often collectively ("the Boche" meaning "the Germans"). It is a shortened form of the French slang portmanteau alboche, itself derived from Allemand ("German") and caboche ("head" or "cabbage"). The alternative spellings "Bosch" or "Bosche" are sometimes found.
> 
> HOMEMADE GARLANDS; CHRISTMAS ORANGES: Garlands were often home-made paper chains or made from pine-wood leaves. Christmas oranges date back several centuries in Europe, and it is essentially oranges decorated or studded with cloves and tied with a ribbon.  
STOCKING PRESENTS: If you would like to see reference: https://media.iwm.org.uk/ciim5/196/98/large_000000.jpg  
AND https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/30081586
> 
> ASTHMA CIGARETTES: asthma cigarettes were widely used by many asthma sufferers as a treatment. These cigarettes contained stramonium as well as various other herbal remedies such as tea leaves, belladonna, and eucalyptus (which later was realized to be a pretty big asthma trigger for many).
> 
> ASTHMA ATTACK TREATMENT 1930S-1940’s: First inhaler as we know it today, particularly rescue medicine for asthma was invented in the 1950s. The options for treatment of asthma was to move somewhere with clean air, asthma cigarettes or gas bulb nebulizer, where an asthmatic would inhale a adrenaline chloride solution. Most nebulizers were so expensive that most patients couldn’t afford them.. This is what they would have used in hospitals.
> 
> The other option, as well as asthma cigarettes, which Steve uses is a dry powder remedy of which POTTER'S ASTHMA REMEDY was the most well known. It came in a green tin with black script. It had a mustard coloured powder inside that was poured onto the lid, lit with a match and then inhaled. It gave off a thick white smoke and you’d inhale the smoke from under a blanket or bath towel. 
> 
> 'WHITE MOUSE' RESISTANCE SPY: Nancy Wake was part of the French Resistance and later became a (SOE) agent. As a member of the escape network, she helped Allied airmen evade capture by the Germans and escape to neutral Spain. In reference to Wake's ability to elude capture, the Gestapo called her the "White Mouse". The Resistance exercised caution with her missions; her life was in constant danger, with the Gestapo tapping her telephone and intercepting her mail. Wake described her tactics: "A little powder and a little drink on the way, and I'd pass their (German) posts and wink and say, 'Do you want to search me?' God, what a flirtatious little bastard I was."
> 
> PAT O'LEARY LINE: was one of several escape and evasion networks in the Netherlands, Belgium, and France during World War II. Along with networks such as the Comet Line, the Shelburne Escape Line, and others, they are credited with aiding about 5,000 Allied airmen and soldiers escape occupied Nazi-occupied Europe. Downed airmen were fed, clothed, given false identity papers, hidden in attics, cellars, and people's homes, and escorted to Marseille, where the line was based. From there, a network of people then escorted them to neutral Spain. From Spain, British diplomats sent the escapees home via British-controlled Gibraltar, funded by MI9. Approximately 12,000 people, nearly all civilians and almost one-half women, were engaged in the work of the escape lines.  
In the words of a member of the escape lines, "it was raining aviators" over Europe at the height of World War II. The morale of airmen on bases rose considerably when they saw their buddies miraculously reappear after having been shot down over occupied Europe.
> 
> ADMIRIAL RADIO (CBS) EXTRACTS ARE TRANSCRIPTS FROM ORIGANAL RADIO BROADCASTS. US radio stations and the British BBC radio transcripts will be added in throughout the fic as context. The radio channels in general were incredibly important during the wartime effort as it kept everyone informed as to what was happening - and if you were the BBC - passed coded messages. 
> 
> JEWISH GHETTOS AND WORK CAMPS NOTE: Bare in mind at this point all the world knows about the Holocaust at this point is that the Jewish people have all been rounded up and put first into ghettos, and then into work camps. They are not aware that the work camps are death camps; and so are unaware of the experiments and gas chambers. They don’t find out until mid 1944.


	22. PART 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and Carter seem to be getting on well. Should I be worried?”
> 
> Should he be? Steve’s cheeks are very pink today in the cold morning light, and his eyes are very blue. Bucky still forgets how tall he is now sometimes, and how broader - he goes to jostle him or swing an arm round him in his joyous moments in the middle or after the action sometimes, but never can quite get his arm to fit round as it used to. The way his face fills out now when before it sagged off his narrow cheekbones is still new too. He’s very striking now - no wonder Carter likes him.

BUCKY

January is a muddy blur of grey landscapes, walking, radioing back to London, Gabe translating and Steve mapping, French partisans answering their questions and smoking their cigarettes.

The days blur together, buoyed only by the cheerful attitudes of Gabe, Dernier, Dum Dum and Morita - who do their best to keep spirits high and get to know everyone even better; in the trudging of his wet boots.

** **

** **. . .** **

** **

30 TH  JANURARY 1944 - ADMIRMAL RADIO (CBS) - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

_World news today, brought to you by the Admiral Corporation; makers of Admiral Radio; America’s smart set. By shortwave broadcast direct from important overseas stations as well as leading news centres of our own country; CBS _ _correspondents_ _ are waiting to give you a complete report all things political and battlefront. But first, here’s Doug Edwards:_

_DOUG: The Allies have extended their bridgehead south of Rome today but the Germans are putting up a stiff fight to hold their lines along the main 5_ _ TH _ _ Army Front. A powerful fleet of American bombs have battered the German aircraft _ _manufacturing_ _ city of Brunswick, and the Red Army continues with their airborne attacks in the East. Adolf Hitler has urged his Germans to bare up under the strain and he warned them that the defeat would bring Bolshevik to Europe._

_The Russians _ _continue__ their pressure in the Leingard region and in the Pacific war zone; American carrier based planes have made the heaviest of attacks so far on the Martial Islands…._

** **

** **

. . .

Back over on the Continent, things were not the way they’d been in London and Scotland. Scotland was damp and tiring and strictly ordered; while London was damp, cold, hungry and blown mostly apart - but busy and welcoming.

It isn’t like that over the Channel - on the continent the people are still skinny, but the lights don’t glow yellow and warm. Every light over here is grey or blue; the mud is thick and black, and constant. Elodie and Marguerite were a little yellow light in the grey, but they move on quickly, flickering in and out of their lives. By the next year, Marguerite will have forgotten her American playmate. It doesn’t stop being cold after Christmas, it stays chilly and frozen and frosty, and more often than not; rainy. There’s been no snow this New Year yet though it seems; an unpredictable bonus. The commandos shiver at night in their bedrolls; and they moan when they wake as their stiff muscles ache, but they put on brave faces, layers packed on thick with their new uniforms.

Gabe tells him, conspiring, that he’s tempted “to return to the railway tracks we blew up” because “the fire was still burning. I could use a bit of heat in my bones, Sarge, or at least in my hands before they go black.” Bucky can see the temptation as the mud crawls up his legs, the wind chips at his lips; his socks squelchy and wet.

Bucky is cold too,_ but in a very different way_ he thinks. The same way he was in Scotland - but now with the others' moaning it seems more obvious when he and Steve do not voice it in the physical. He cheers with each little detour they do, enjoying the little guerrilla strikes; loving the pattern of blowing the shit out of something and running for the hills to avoid the aftermath; it gets his blood up, gets his heart going. When they walk, between running out of gas and stealing another vehicle, he finds that most of the time his legs move without cooperation or intervention of his brain. He’d be worried normally, that he was slipping into a ‘_fade_’ as he’s dubbed them; fading away from the world, but he can still feel himself moving and still feel some of his semi-thoughts. It’s more like the world’s a little misty; a little wispy, as he wanders the foreign soil floating above himself.

His pace leaves his mind free to wander aimlessly and endlessly over the landscape; the impossibly small and distant houses with their far off glint of windows, like eyes watching them slink past in the woods. He imagines who lives there, where their loyalties lie and the stories they pass down from grandmother to grandchildren and so forth.

It’s something to explore and admire. He’s always wanted to travel; though didn’t think he’d be at war when he did it. It's something. He wishes it were summer again.

. . .

_He__ counts fifty-nine. He has been in this factory for fifty nine days and in this lab for fifty-one days. _ _He will be here for longer. He will be here forever, he never left._

_“Describe the sensation precisely.”_ _ The sensation of you stabbing a needle in me. The sensation of it threading through muscle, sluicing through, the sensation of a flood as it's expelled. It mixes with something else - it hurts! Hot cold, hot cold. What's going on? Is that precise enough for you, you fucker. Am I alone? Is someone else here?_

_Zola's wearing a red tie with diamond symbols on it. Bucky prefers the grey diamond one; the colour doesn't hurt his eyes so much. It's too red - red like the mist in his eye. Is he alone? Andrew are you here? Andrew? What was that giant story again, the one where they walk across the sea for something, I want to recycle it, can you tell me? Andy?_

_A_ _ndrew's dead, right; yeah. Oh yeah. _

_Sarah, what about Sarah, is she still here? I want the puppies, will you come back? _

_Bucky prefers the stripy ties, the diagonal browny-cream ones, they're not as bright - but detailed enough to distract from the white coat. I feel fuzzy - did I go to sleep? Yes and no. They put something in my water, I could see the bubbles; so I didn't drink it. They held me down and made me drink it. Then I slept. Oh yes. What are they doing to my stomach? There's probably something wrong with you if I can feel your sweat through your gloves, Dr Weasel._

_"What kind of animal is it?" What is the picture - a beaver, a bear, a cat, a elephant. He hasn’t seen most of those in real life, only in drawings; how does he know? He doesn't understand. Moby-dick - is it Moby dick, no, he's a whale isn't he...a whale in a book. Does he know what a whale looks like? Huckleberry Finn, Clair De Lune, treble clefs, mama, Mrs Coulter's peach pie. Treasure Island, 'm sorry - what? No, please don't. _

_"_ _What kind of animal was it?"_

_Beaver beaver no bear, he means bear, it’s a bear please please it’s bear. _

_Don’t please, please, I’m trying. I promise I’m trying. It’s a bear. Bear bear bear - don’t shoot Steve!_

. . .

The coordinates when they spit out from the fax read : _50°6'37.51"N, 4°57'19.94"E_SAFE + _50°7'42.56"N, 5°20'33.86"E_ENEMY

When the code’s broken part of it says: HOUSE ON HILL, BLUE DOOR. COME AS GERMANS.

. . .

“Okay,” Jones says as he looks up, cranking the radio antenna in by hand crank. “Seems like they’ve got a scouting patrol out at 1430 hours from what I can make out. We can pick them off then.”

. . .

On the 2nd of February they cross the border at _Hargnies_ to _Willerzie_, officially in Belgium now, on foot, and criss-cross their way north to the town of _Beauraing_, stopping off briefly at the side of the road in a foxhole. The third town, and the destination of the Comet Line safe-house rings a bell somehow, but he’s not sure how.

Gabe stares at his watch, and Steve cocks his head as he always does when he hears a truck coming. It’s 1436. Gabe says: “Incoming.” 

The truck rumbles into view, and they all throw the road trap spikes under the wheels from each side. The tyres burst and it lurches to a stop. There’s more annoyed grumbling than there is shouting, and three soldiers dismount and get out. They swear when they see the spikes embedded all in the tyres and start cursing out about the Dutch Resistance, thinking it’s just a sabotage-and-flee trick. Bucky comes up behind one, pushes the barrel of his gun into the back his neck. The man freezes, one jerks to a turn - but Falsworth’s right behind him with own gun on the other two. Gabe and Dernier are on the soldiers in the backseat.

“Hi.” Bucky says, “We’re gonna need those rags of yours. Please and thank you.” He adds, then pistol whips the man so he drops to the ground. They make the other’s strip, then tie them up and leave them tangled up in each other in the foxhole. They only have to shoot two of the seven, when they fool-heartedly fight, and only one is likely to die from it.

They carry onwards on foot, back towards the safe-house, now readily supplied to pass as German soldiers. It might be a bit of a squeeze for Steve’s shoulders and sleeves, but needs must. He can always just stay hidden - and they’ll probably want him in uniform for the actual assault.

They pass by the hand-made shrine of Our Lady of Beauraing, the Virgin Heart of Gold, _that’s it he remembers now_, skirting around the edges of the buildings at night. Bucky stares at it and how the gold heart has been carved out of the statues chest, surrounded by a circle of flowers those who believe are stubbornly keeping alive. 

“Steve.” Bucky whispers, as they wait for a civilian to disappear from the window above them and turn off the light. “Is this the place where there were those apparitions? Father Matthews used to go on about it all the time. They sent a Cardinal, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.” He whispers back, “In the thirties, a bunch of kids saw them. I think there was like thirty one or something. It was a sighted miracle in our time, how could you forget?”

“Thought it sounded familiar.” Bucky shrugs, “It was bugging me.”

“What the hell you two going on about?”

“Catholic miracles.” Bucky whispers back, “or not. Depending on how gullible you are.”

“Oh bloody hell, never mind.”

“Don’t start.” Steve whispers back, and explains when Monty looks interested, “apparitions of a glowing woman with a gold heart, said she was a virgin Saint - a decade ago. The Church are still investigating. People believe it, come for cures. That must be where she told them where to build the chapel.” He says, eyes wide, as he notices the scratched up shrine.

“There’s a cult and everything apparently.” Bucky says, “Which makes it ten times more interesting. Steve, she’s gone.” He notes right as the light turns out above them across the street, so they carry on, keeping to the shadows. “You sure you didn’t ask for the safe house to be here so you could come see it?”

“I didn’t know there was a safe-house here until we got the coordinates, so no, Bucky, seriously.”

“I’m just saying, you might as well make the most of it while we’re here. See if you can get a cure for that enormous nose.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Hate you too, pal.”

“I hate you both.” Dugan says, “now will you get a move on.”

Steve shoves an arm over his chest and pulls him and Dernier, whose just behind him, round a corner. The other’s scatter into the darkness and behind a bunch of bins. A light _Paner _tank rumbles down the road on patrol followed by a small truck, several German-Belgium soldiers perched on the back. The notice board of the village hall is covered in _WALLONIE: Viens a Nous! _Posters encouraging French-speaking Belgium men to join the German infantry. Steve, Bucky and Dernier pitch themselves low to the ground until the patrol passes, then push themselves to their feet again as the area falls back into shadow. Falsworth crawls his way out of a bush.

“Hey.” Bucky whispers as they move on and he gets a better look at the noticeboard - there’s other propaganda posters - but not Nazi ones. “Check it out.”

There’s two posters, one with a solider in all black holding a flag. There’s the tentacled logo on the flag in red and on the red armband in black, and again, faded in the red-sepia background. It says, _‘HELP BUILD THE WORLD OF TOMORROW, HYDRA, JOIN THE NEW WORLD ORDER TODAY.’_ Then another, once again in red and black, with simple sufficient;_ ‘HAIL HYDRA!’_ scrawled over the top, and below it - the Red Skull, fisted arms raised behind him, three aside, like a fan or a throne.

“Bloody hell, Rodgers, is that what he actually looks like?” Monty asks, and Steve mutters a perturbed:

“Yep, that’s him.”

Bucky helps him tear them down, and then the pamphlet also strung up with it. “Guess you’re not the only face of propaganda Steve-o.”

“Yeah yeah,” Steve says, scrunching and folding it up. “Lets go. And if you see anymore - anywhere - tear them down.”

They follow along the road and out of the main village, following the lane going upwards until a series of larger houses appear from the trees. The fourth one along has a blue door, and is three floored if plain on the front with an overgrown path and a boarded up window. The front door is locked, but the side door is blown open off it’s hinges, so they slip inside; and the stars glint at them from above through a hole in the roof and a fallen back wall. The garden the house opens up to on the back is less of a garden and more of a explosion of turned up dirt and cobbles. A bomb’s hit here before, and a shutter slams somewhere else as the wind smacks against it. This room has been abandoned to the elements; moss has begun to crawl over the carpet and up the walls, and the house seems to groan from the wind in the eaves. There’s double doors with heavy chains leading to the rest of the house, but the padlock is open, so Dugan slips the chains off the handles and they slip inside to a still empty room, but one that at least has four walls. There’s white fabric thrown over several pieces of furniture. It’s very cold and creepy; the heavy damp air and the wind make it seem very chilling.

The one table that is uncovered is a side one, and it has an unplugged lamp and two newspapers dating back several days laid atop it; a collaborationist _Le Soir _newspaper and an underground _La Libre Belgique_ newspaper. Someone’s been here recently, even if the house echoes as if empty. Bucky fingers the cold damp paper, reading a few lines of the the _La Libre_ paper, which sports wildly different information to the headline of the collaborationist one.

“Move silently,” Steve orders, “We should search the property. Houses like this are often requisitioned by the Army.”

They nod and move on to other rooms, pulling out their smaller side arms, some rooms equally covered in white fabric and empty, others less so. They come across what must be the main room or parlour with a fireplace; it's unlit - doesn’t look like it has been for a while - but there’s a mug and a still slightly smoking wooden pipe laying in an ashtray by a speculator curved armchair. Dugan motions to it before Bucky can.

“Good evening gentlemen.”

Falsworth jumps about a foot in the air.

“Good _goddamn__ Carter._” Dugan snaps, hand on his chest. Bucky and Steve lower their guns sharply as they recognize her. “A bit of warning would be nice. You came out of nowhere.”

“Actually I came from upstairs.”

“How did you even find--”

“I sent you the coordinates, Dugan.” She says flatly.

He disguises his embarrassment with a laugh, “Oh, yeah, right.”

She’s dressed in brown cargo pants and light boots, a long sleeved black shirt and brown jacket. Her hair’s pulled back and swirled into a bun - her fringe come loose to cover her forehead. Several strands tumble out down past her chin and down her neck to curl at her collar from the now almost-daily rain. Her lips are a little chapped and her nose a little red from the cold. Steve’s looking at her in undisguised wonder next to him. _Jesus Christ_, Bucky thinks in amusement. He kicks Steve in the back of the shin so he schools his face before the woman turns her gaze to him.

He rallies admiringly. “Glad too see you made it, Agent.”

“As am I. I was starting to get worried about you.”

“Small hold up on route. We couldn’t arrive without our new uniforms.”

“Glad to hear it.” Carter replies, and glances awkwardly at the others when Steve keeps looking at her. _God, this forced professionalism is not good, _Bucky thinks,_ in the way that it's almost painful. _

Carter clears her throat. “No need to search the rest of the building, we’ve already taken care of that. Gentlemen, meet Antonio.”

“Alright?”---”How’s it?”---”Mate.” They all wave or grunt in acknowledgement as a tall tanned man appears from behind Peggy in the doorway, and Steve steps forward to shake the man’s hand.

“Nice to meet you.” Steve greets. “I’m Captain Steve Rodgers, this is Sergeant Barnes,” he says as Bucky follows him in shaking his hand. The man has a good strong handshake. “Major Falsworth, Sergeant Dugan, Corporal Morita, Private Gabe Jones and Jacques Dernier.” He introduces as Falsworth, who has the best manners out of all of them, follows Bucky quickly in clasping the man’s hand too.

“Ola, hello.” Antonio returns, “it’s good to put faces to the names.” He eyes each of them in turn as if committing them to memory with shrewd eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to join this motley crew?” Dugan says with a grin.

“He is today,” Carter says. “joining up with us to hit the base. From Madrid. Spanish Special Operations.”

“I thought Spain were neutral.”

“That’s the company line.” Antonio says, “but every last one of us; not so much.”

“He’s been working with us since 41’ but has been operating on the Western Line since 36’. He’s been operating solely on Hydra cases as of last year, so you’ll probably see a lot of him and me from now on.” Peggy says, “and this is Madame Lameire, she is our host this evening.” Peggy adds on as an tall, very thin older woman in her sixty comes into the room, and goes directly to the arm chair. She’s carrying a heated hot water bottle and wrapped up tightly in a night gown - but looks rather run down.

“Hello hello, yes, get them upstairs will you? I don’t like to see the faces of those who come here, it is safer that way.”

“Of course Madame.” Antonio replies, and he and Peggy wave them back out into the main hallway, leaving the woman to smoke in the damp dark. “Come with us - we’ve got an room on the second floor - good sight lines down the road. Watch your step there - the wood’s started to rot.” There’s water drip dripping into a metal bucket as they crest the top of the stairs. “There’s soldiers stationed in the houses either side of us - but the hedges are high so we should be fine - just watch your angles in the windows. The condition is better upstairs, Madame has left heated bottles for us.” Antonio notes, knowledgeable and professional. He looks to be in his thirties or forties if Bucky could guess, with dark hair curling at his nape - he has freckles on one side of his forehead.

“But not in this house?” Steve asks, because he was right about solider stationing. The British requisitioned country houses for the Army, and so do the Germans; even if this isn’t quite the level of this particular house. In France all the small hotels and boutiques, and larger estates all served as accommodation for the occupying forces.

“No.” Carter answers, guiding them through the door of their assigned room. “Madame Lameire found if she let the house dilapidate the Germans would stop stationing here after the shell came down. So now she allows the Resistance to use it; right in the centre of the occupation force it’s an invisible eye.” Steve seems to hear some kind of scuffling in another room, not from a rat if Bucky’s eyes can serve a guess. The others don’t seem to hear it either. Carter notices Steve’s gaze. “Don’t go in the other room - they have small children - they won’t understand and you’ll scare them.”

“Jewish?” Steve asks quietly, and Peggy nods a yes. When they get inside she says: “Well gentlemen, it has been a while since we saw you all - shall we sit? It seems like we have a lot to go over.”

Antonio chuckles, “From what I’ve been hearing you lot have been having great fun raking havoc over the French countryside.”

“Oh yeah?” Dugan asks, “what’ve you been hearing?”

“This and that.” Antonio says vaguely, “I have a lot of ears on the ground. One of mine spotted you just outside of Nancy. You weren’t the only stowaways on that train.” He laughs.

“No kidding.” Steve murmurs, as he knew there was a family hidden in the crates of the next carriage along - he told Bucky he heard a baby suckling - maybe it was one of them - or someone else. Now that he thinks back he remembers glimpsing a woman in a blue hat sliding a envelope in the bag of the mailman when he wasn’t looking. He wonders if that was Antonio’s spy, or just a woman using underhanded methods to get her letter where it needed to go without proper checks.

The room they have for the night is loaded with long sofas and armchairs, blankets, and heated hot water bottles for all of them; along with a heated antique coal bed pan at the centre on a table, surrounded by lit lanterns. The orange glows casts a strange light on the patterned wallpaper and empty fireplace. There’s a map spread out on the table, and several surveillance photographs, so they perch around it to pass around the heated hot water bottles. Bucky impolitely grabs his and shoves it down his jacket to hug against his stomach. Most of the boys and Steve follow the trend.

“I take it we’re hitting the base tomorrow?” Steve says as that seems the obvious choice, looking over the photographs. If Peggy and Antonio have already done the recon then they’ll already have a plan structured, it won’t be Steve-o’s plan from the get-go.

“Yes, it’s thirty six minutes from here - heavy Hydra presence in the area. I’d be surprised if you haven’t seen any on your way in.”

“Well, we found these.” Steve says, and plops the pamphlet and crinkled posters on the floor within the light of the lanterns. “I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve seen these?” He adds as he glimpses Antonio’s face who shrugs a yes. “But other than that - not that we’ve noticed, but we’ve only come across one patrol.”

“Oh, they’re about I promise you.”

“Same goon uniform as in Krausberg?” Dugan asks, “all black; masks?”

“Stupid goggles.” Bucky throws in.

“The internal guard yes,” Antonio answers, “the foot troops come in black, blue or brown - with the emblem and normally with half masks over their jaws. They have the same suits, but different technology every time I see them.”

“If there’s so many of them I take it storm the base in one giant hit is out.” Falsworth says.

“Yes.” Carter says, “we have a hundred and fifty Free Belgium forces dropping down from London at 0443 to assist us, we have it planned down to the last movement. The Airforce is going to barrage the area south of here to distract them from the incoming troop plane. They’ll land and move out here - cause an attack to draw out the bulk of the HYDRA guard. While they attack there--” she points to the map, “ --we come in here via zip line - enter undercover. The plan is a staggered attack; _distract, decoy; retrieval of __assets__ and intel_.”

“So we’re not blowing this one up?”

“Oh, no, feel free.” Carter waves off, which makes Dugan and Dernier grin, “- _after _we’ve made off with the intel. This base is a records and weapons development facility - it’s crawling with stuff we need. We need to recover as much as we can - it’s intel like this that leads to codes and other bases coming to light.”

“Then you can blow it to the sky, and then the rest of the way to heaven too.” Antonio adds to Dernier’s delighted laugh.

“Welcome to the team then.” Steve says with a grin; clearing seeing a fellow conspirator in the making, glancing between him and Carter; whom he lingers on for longer.

“So this is how the base is laid out.” Carter explains in depth. “Five blocks of main buildings, the centre courtyard and outbuildings - we’ll grapple in here. It’s not a work camp. There’s no evidence of prisoners - so it’ll just be us coming out once we’re in. We’ve re-conned the outside and partly the inside for four days - there’s a prison block - but it’s empty.” Carter keeps going as Antonio points it out the building block on the outskirts of the compound behind the electric fence. “Aside from two men - both of whom are Hydra - punishment for not following orders.”

She runs through the plan in great depth, and he concedes to her as quite honestly she’s done all the work here. Eventually he asks, “What about Reinforcement?”

“They won’t get them through the area phones lines.” Antonio says, “Carter and I cut all but one, the nearest to base, this afternoon. The last one is ours tomorrow. At exactly 07:59 an SOE agent and Belgium Libre Resistance are blowing the railways lines between _Rochefort, St Hubert _and_ Champlon_. Reinforcements, if they have them, will have to come by foot or road - and by the time they get there we should have already taken it. This isn’t along the Fronts - there’s no fighting in Belgium at all - outside of Hydra the German’s don’t have the infrastructure in the area - it’s focused on the coasts and Brussels.”

“That’s great. We should set road traps too,” Steve says, “on all the roads our men aren’t using.”

“Perfect.” Carter says at the end, cracking open her dinner. “We can lay them before we start the climb to the cliff. Eat up and get some sleep gentlemen. Tomorrows going to be great fun.”

“Can’t wait,” Steve grins before offering up the comfiest sofa. She declines, probably merely out of the idea that Steve offered it to her, but she does it with a small smile at him. Bucky watches the two of them for a while, talking over a meat loaf and wonders when they suddenly got so much closer. They seem to both have shaken off that awful professionalism from the beginning of the night.

He picks the _chaise lounge_ to camp out on, simply for the fancy name so he can rub it in his ma’s face for sleeping on something so swanky. He can’t see exactly what colour it is in the dim room with the orange lanterns - especially as the sofas are collected in a corner away from the coal bed pan and window - but he thinks it’s a deep red, with a flower pattern embroidered deep within it. Above him lays a darker patch of wallpaper to the rest where an old framed painting must have hung. He wonders what it was; if it was contempory, or Renaissance, or Dutch or Baroque - Madame Lameire seems like the type to collect art. She probably has it hidden away somewhere safe, like the rest of her valuables; she may even have her husband hidden away somewhere from the wartime career she’s made from hiding people. He likes making up stories for the people he meets; who they are, why they're there and what they’re going to do. He and Steve used to sit in the park sometimes when it was too hot up in their apartment, stretched out on the grass and do it - making up wildly inaccurate childish home-lives for the people they saw. It’s a childish game they seemingly never grew out of.

Jim plans to bed down below him on the floor, having lost his round of rock, paper, scissors and has gone to rinse his mouth out after brushing his teeth last. Carter ends up on the sofa across from him. “I forgot to say.” She says, “it’s good to see you, Sergeant.”

He hasn’t seen her since halfway through Scotland, so it’s a very strange comment. He’s not sure whether to be suspicious; he probably should be; he is.

“You too I guess.” He says, seeing as he’s not sure what else he should say. Her expression falters just a little as he pulls the blanket over his bedroll.

. . .

It’s not as if he’s never seen Steve go gaga over a beautiful dame before - spin the bottle at Christmas is still one of his funniest memories - of Steve embarrassed, very red and very _very _hard - it’s a whole other matter seeing the interest returned though. That hasn’t ever happened before he doesn’t think- apart from when Bucky saw something that wasn’t there with Katerina when he was trying to find someone for Steve. Part of him is pleased, proud and excited - and it’s a big big part of him too; Bucky’s not that kind of asshole. He’s not.

She’d told them after that the rendezvous is an airfield - which was going to drop them in Czechoslovakia for their next two bases per an enveloped letter from Philips, handed exclusively to Steve - but that wasn’t the important part - the important part was the look on Steve’s face when she told them she was also exclusively in Europe for the foreseeable future. She would be either pre-emptying them, joining up with them or own her own assignments. _We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other_, she’d said; looking at Steve. Steve had positively lit up in the dark creepy room.

It makes him feel good to see Steve looking happy and hopeful for once in his life...but Steve had gone to Carter around the map to go over the plan, right at the last minute as a disguise to talk - and that’s what he does with Bucky normally.

And It wasn’t as if Bucky had ever expected----never mind.

. . .

_There’s hands on his face keeping his jaw locked and wide open. Something sickly sour rushes over his burning tongue and down his throat; he tries to cough and spit it back up. The _ _invisible_ _ hands move and seal his mouth and nostrils shut until he swallows and they laugh, heavy and mocking, when he throws up blood after._

_Then there’s the smell of burning and a counting back in German, and someone’s making soft-hurt little sounds but the _ _machine_ _ is on and everything is fuzzy and going flash flash flash - he can’t see! Where is he?!_

He wakes with a cut off gasp, holding back a choke as he slaps his hand over his mouth. There’s an animal rustling in the bushes or the tree on the other side of the outside wall - or the Jewish family across the corridor are making more noise - he’s doesn’t know, the blood is rushing too loud in his ears - his heart pumping so fast _he can’t focus-_\-- He heaves in a giant breath through his fingers and lets it out, chest heaving. The patterned wallpaper is dark, and he sinks slowly all the rest of the way back down on the _chaise lounge_. His back touches the fabric and he twists sharply onto his side so he’s not stuck staring at the ceiling all over again, and kicks off his bedroll and blanket so he’s not constrained. When he takes his hand away from his mouth it’s shaking, so he shoves it into his arm pit, curls up tight and doesn’t breathe as Morita turns over in his sleep below him. The man mumbles something intelligible and shuffles a little, but doesn’t wake.

He holds his breath until his eyes start going blurry, then blinks and breathes in and out before the tears start. He shifts the other arm out from under him until he’s clasping the handle of his combat knife he keeps by his head now. The gun is too much of a risk after the other day, but the knife is still essential. Dugan thinks it’s an overreaction and a paranoid habit, but Dugan can go shove it like he does everything else.

The man is currently sat by the open window on watch, chaining smoking cigarettes like a chimney. The smell permeates the air and Bucky can just about glimpse his head over the top of Carter’s sofa, and Falsworth’s and Steve’s further along. Bucky’s never liked the taste but he likes the smell. His pop used to smoke cheap cigars in their old garden when he was young, and used to get fancy Marlborough ladies smokes for his ma on occasion. Bucky used to sit at his feet learning his sums with chalk on a piece of slate while he sat back smoking - then the man would hum when Bucky got something right or pretend to cough when he got something wrong. Then he’d stub his cigarette out in the astray on the sill, lean forward to rest his elbows on his knees and talk _his lad_, _Jamie_ (when they were still trying out nicknames) and then _his lad Bucky_ through it until he could do them in his sleep. _Numbers are a man’s best friend_ he used to say, _they’ll always be useful. _

Bucky used to reply,_ I thought a dog was a man’s best friend. Oh, can we get--_

_We’re not getting a dog. _His father would interrupt.

Bucky would say; _But Aunt Louise and the cousins have one._

_Your Aunt Louise lives on a farm, you live in the city. There's a difference, a big one._ His pa would reply and then say, _Don’t ask your mother._

_Only because she’ll say yes to me. _He used to retort back as his father ruffled his hair and gave him another problem to solve.

When they moved he and ma used to go out on their balcony and smoke together, chatting or drinking quietly while they watched the sun set over Red Hook. Bucky remembers watching their backs and the trails of smoke drifting away as he sat at the table and did his homework alone. Numbers _were_ his friend, and he didn’t need his father’s help anymore.

Now he can smell what must be Dugan’s fourth cigarette and the tobacco scent makes him wrinkle his nose and makes his stomach curdle. He can’t remember whatever he just dreamt about - knows it’s not real despite his body trying to tell him it is, but can imagine the gist.

Instead of homework and balconies he thinks _burning_,_ fire _and of the circular marks on his arms and hips still. Some things heal over completely, some things don’t. Some leaves scars; like cigar burns and brands and hot things, but luckily most of the scars Bucky bears can’t be seen by the naked eye.

(The unpredictably is something he’s grown used to.)

He tightens his hand over the handle of the blade again, and forces his breathing to calm so as to wait out the night. He knows he won’t sleep again; not until his next attempt tomorrow, and it’s not fair to Morita or the others to sit up and start cleaning his guns on this nice _chaise lounge_. For one there’s no space to do it, and just because Bucky can’t sleep doesn’t mean Jim shouldn’t be able to either. He could leave the vicinity of sleeping corner to clean his guns, and calm his nerves, but that would mean putting up with Dugan’s small talk; which he can already tell will move into another territory if he sits there too long.

There’s a small spider crawling along the wall; it gives him something to focus on, so he follows it spinning it’s web under a unlit wall lamp until the shadows grows lighter with sunlight and dawn. He crawls off the _chaise_, stepping over and around sleeping bodies and furniture like it’s hopscotch. He stretches, pretending to pop his back until it cracks, as though he’s just woken. Steve’s already up, having taken third watch last night despite also taking it the night before. He’s not sure if he’s trying to prove a point that he can do it if Bucky is doing it too, or if he really just doesn’t need the sleep anymore.

“Morning.”

“Morning. You’re up early.”

Bucky shrugs, “It’s the army, everyone needs to be up early.”

Steve concedes, then suggests. “True, might as well let the rest of them sleep while we get breakfast on though.”

Bucky nods and starts pulling out the ration tins from everyone's packs, and Steve gets a start on the coffee; the only thing he’s allowed to touch by entire commando consensus.

“I’m not that bad.” Steve adds, as if he can sense Bucky’s thoughts.

“Sure you’re not.” He agrees balefully, and Steve scrunches his nose up, knowing Bucky doesn’t mean it. “Morita should be up soon anyway,” Bucky says, “he was awake, if dozing when I left. And he never dozes long.”

A vaguely loud snore echoes from the right, followed by Monty’s more subdued snore from the nearest sofa. “Don’t think Dugan’s dozing.” Steve grins.

Bucky hums, if a little dismissive.

“You sleep okay?”

“Uh-huh.” He answers, seeing if he can heat up the ration breakfasts over the still-hot coal bed-pan like Steve is with the coffee. He looks up after a moment of silence. Steve’s observing him steadily. _Fuck, did he hear him last night with those eagle ears? _“Why?”

“Just --- you look a bit tired. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Bucky rubs his face, as if to wipe sleep out of his eyes. “No, well I did.” He allows, seeing as he can hardly hide his dark eyes with powder like Agent Carter does. “As much as you can out here. I swear the grounds harder than in Scotland, even though we were on couches last night.”

“I’d say softer.”

“It’s cause you’re just getting used to it now.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“There’s only so much ‘comfortable’ sleep you can get out here,” Bucky keeps defending after a moment, feeling like he needs to, “and we’re still fresh; technically. By the time we’re two bases in no doubt I’ll be so exhausted I’ll be falling asleep in my dinner.”

Steve huffs in amusement, “Yeah probably.” He agrees, and cants his head to the back of the couch where Dugan’s resting. Another snore echoes out. “Some people find it easier than others anyway.”

“Clearly.” Bucky mutters, only a little jealous.

“You know Falsworth finds it easier to sleep on the ground like this than he does to sleep in a bed, says it’s like---”

“--Sleeping on a cloud.” Bucky guesses, “he said the same to me.” Steve nods and Bucky observes _him_ this time. “Did _you_ sleep okay, before your watch?”

Steve shrugs, smiling at him sardonically. He’s always been a classic insomniac, always feeling like there’s something he could and should be doing instead of sleeping away his life, seeing as he did enough of that when he was ill. It used to drive Bucky up the wall, who used to love his sleep, way back when. It’s why Steve always offers to take third watch, seeing as he’s always been a early riser anyway. He’s also a late nighter; so there's no winning; which suits his Captaincy as he’s normally always the last one to bed, sat by the fire and going over their plan for the thousandth time.

Bucky had to drag him by his lapel to bed last night to get him away from Carter, who herself was looking a little dead-eyed.

“Normal for me.” He throws out, “couldn’t settle for a while, but that’s nothing new. Was it the same for you? Or nightmares?”

Bucky ever so quickly searches his face and body for any knowledge, or hint that he’s trying to catch Bucky out in a lie, but he just seems as though he’s fishing; just to see. Bucky shrugs in response, neither confirming or denying.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks after, taking the shrug as what is it.

Bucky scoffs, “Of course I’m fine. You want a double ration, today? Seeing as we’re sacking a castle like a group of medieval knights?” Steve’s normal ration is already bigger than a regular man’s as he needs to eat twice as much as them, but today’s a special day so he gets a double-double ration. The lucky sod.

“It’s a factory, not a castle,” Steve contradicts, rolling his eyes in amusement, “but sure, that’d be great. Get my energy going. Put a little extra in for everyone.” He adds later, “We’ve got enough, I’d rather everyone has the extra today.”

It’s a nice, very generous thought to all the guys, but Steve says it while looking at Bucky’s collarbone, so he knows where the thought comes from. Bucky adds a few bits into the collective food pile as per his orders, and almost burns himself as he tries to relight the bedpan to get enough heat to good the food as well as the coffee. Steve helps.

“You and Carter seem to be getting on well." He notes after a little while. "Should I be worried?”

_Should he be?_ Steve’s cheeks are very pink today in the cold morning light, and his eyes are very blue. Bucky still forgets how tall he is now sometimes, and how broader - he goes to jostle him or swing an arm round him during his joyous moments in the middle or after the action sometimes, but never can quite get his arm to fit round as it used to. The way his face fills out now when before it sagged off his narrow cheekbones is still new too. He’s very striking now - no wonder Carter likes him. Handsome, strong, dazzling, alluring - _those aren’t words you use for boys, Bucky. _He feels like he doesn’t know this Steve. It’s a same-but-different Steve to the one at home, the same way he’s a not-so-same-but-very-different Bucky to what he used to be. He thinks he misses the old one even though they’re the same but not - he doesn’t know. Things are so hard now.

Steve scoffs this time, “worried about what?”

He covers, “Walking in on some nefarious scene involving your cock--”

“Bucky!” He hisses, glancing at the couch where Carter’s still sleeping. His voice isn’t charming or amused now - he sounds annoyed.

“Right. Sorry.” Bucky says as he realises his words, “Really. Sorry Steve, I didn’t think.” He means it, to him and Carter - it’s kinda really not okay to talk about it while she’s right there. And he can still want them together even if he doesn’t much like her himself - he doesn’t need to know her. Steve nods, but the mood has soured a little. _He's fucked it already hasn't he, nothing he does is right anymore._ “Are we okay?” He asks afterwards.

Steve looks up at him, “Aside from that poorly made comment, yeah,” he says, frowning, “of course we are.”

Bucky nods, pursing his lips. “I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

“The other night -when I--with the gun. I’m really fucking sorry Steve, I don’t know if I said that.”

“You did.” Steve tells him softly, “and it’s okay. It was just a accident. Is there anything else that made you think we weren’t okay?” He asks after a moment.

_Yes. No. I don’t know._ He finds himself glancing at the back of the sofa Carter is sleeping on again. _Was she trying to be nice last night?_ Or was she trying to get something out of him, you can’t ever tell with that kind of person._ She knows about the supposed __gonorrhoea doesn’t she_, the thought suddenly strikes, _god that’s embarrassing._

“Bucky.” Steve prompts again.

“What?” He blanches.

“Is there anything else apart from the other night that made you think we weren’t okay?” He repeats, then adds on after “Or anything you want to talk--”

“No no, sorry, pal. No, I just - I dunno, got a weird feeling. That was all.” He decides to be semi-truthful, because he does have a weird feeling. “The coffee's burning.” He notes.

“Oh shit.” Steve swears, which about sums up the standard of that conversation.

* * *

STEVE

_ Nassogne, Walloon Region, Occupied Belgium. Behind German Line I  _ _ 50°7'42.56"N, 5°20'33.86" _ _ _ _ E _

“So...Antonio,” Steve asks Peggy as they walk, “how did you two meet?”

“Why? Do you think we’re fonduing?”

Steve can feel himself flushing red, _oh Christ_, but Peggy’s grinning at him with amusement out of the corner of her eye.

“I only meant,” Steve says, clearing his voice and trying to hide his embarrassment. He doesn’t think he’s done very well. “--that-that you obviously trust him.”

“We’ve known each other for a while. He’s one of the agents who took me under his wing my first year on the field, when my superior realized there was two operations running at the same time and joined us up. Two years ago he came across a Hydra bombardment and old base; and in turn leaked it to me, as I’d come across suggestions of it in broken codes. It’s…it’s how I found Erksine.” Peggy explains quietly, then says “don’t spread that. I only told you as I know Erksine already got drunk and spilled more than he should have.” She adds, realizing she may have said too much. Steve quirks a lip at her, as no, he can’t deny that he did know a lot. Dr Erksine was a very chatty drunk. Peggy clears her throat, back on the topic of Antonio. “He stayed on the case after and has been helping us route them out, outside his country's obligations. He’s a good one to have on hand for these kind of larger retrieval operations.”

“Plus I was the closest.” Antonio shrugs, sliding up past them along the path, poking Peggy in the arm. “She is far too complimentary.”

“And you are far too humble.”

“Like someone else you know as you told me.” He says, and has the _gall,_ from Peggy’s expression it seems, to glance at Steve and _wink_ at her. He laughs, says, “You should boost his ego too with a_ beso._” (“kiss”)

“Ignore him Captain, he likes to tease.” She says defiantly, walking ahead, and now she’s the one blushing.

“What’s a _beso_?” He whispers to Gabe when he gets the chance.

“Is that--what, Spanish? I don’t know, do I? Spanish isn’t one my fortes.” He whispers back in Steve’s ear as they walk, then grins, “shall I find you a dictionary?”

“…Yes. Find me one.”

Gabe laughs, and Bucky glances over, questioning. Steve waggles his eyebrows at him, so Bucky gives him an amused frown back. He glances at Gabe quizzical, and Steve realizes the man’s mouthing ‘what does _beso _mean?’

‘What?’ Bucky mouths back. Steve glances quickly at Peggy’s back in front of them as they hike.

‘A _beso._’ Gabe mouths ago.

Bucky shrugs, the universal face for ‘I don’t know.’

“Alrighty lads, and lady of course,” Falsworth says, on map and compass duty. “This is where we split for the moment. Let’s treat these roads to a bit of sabotage.”

They split into pairs and trios; on road duty, phone line duty and early layout look-out duty. He and Peggy pair up to take the road to the south-east, and skid down half-a hill in the trees.

“I um, I saw you talking to Buck last night.” Steve muses innocently, laying the spikes on the ground, “or trying to at least.”

Peggy hums, “It wasn’t much of a conversation. If one sentence even counts as so.”

Steve has to wince, heart sinking where before it was rising. “Oh, right.” He sighs, watching her spread her own spikes on the other side of the road further up than his. The more laid out they are the less likely the enemy will spot them. “Listen, I know the two of you didn’t start off on the right foot at the bar that night - or - well - after.”

“I noticed -” Peggy adds, “Things have been particular tense since the end of Surrey.” She muses, then defends. “I was only doing my job.”

“I know you were.” Steve assures softly.

From her defensiveness, for a moment Steve feels like the conversation may be over - but then she continues, finishing up. “And I know exactly what that was that night in the bar. I don’t hold that part against him. Jealousy can do strange things to a person.”

Steve blinks in bewilderment, jumping down into the verged drop from the road. She follows. “Jealous?” He asks in surprise - _what, that’s surely insane_\-- ”Of who, me?”

Peggy raises an eyebrow. “You know Captain, for one of the best strategists we have in this fight, you can be terribly dense.”

“What?”

She bites back a laugh. “Nothing.” She says, patting him on the arm.

“I only - I like you.” He blurts, forcing out the honesty; fed up with dancing around the subject with word-play. He’s always been one for the narrow and straight-forward approach. “I think that’s fairly obvious now - and he’s my best pal. And even if he wasn’t, and we weren’t -- I’d like you two to get on anyway if we’re going to be working together so much.”

“I’d say that’s fair enough.” She replies after a moment. “And for the record,” Peggy says, giving him a moment. “The feeling is very much mutual.”

“Yeah?” Steve just has to confirm for himself. “Okay. Okay, good.” He adds, not bothering to conceal his smile. “I was really hoping I wasn’t reading into it too much.”

“You’re weren’t.” She says, amused. “I just - I have to be careful. Unfortunately women are not afforded the same concessions as men, especially in this environment. I hope you understand--”

She silences herself. Her hand swings out to back Steve against a tree at the same time Steve’s arm catches her; both trying to pull each other in opposite directions. He’s stronger, so he has the momentum. She stumbles a little as he swings them into cover. They duck down; three patrol men walk five meters off the road and fifteen from them. They’re in beige green helmets, and thick coats with arm patches on the right arms; red skulls on black.

“Hydra.” Steve whispers, identifying them as separate from the usual occupying force.

“Should we--”

“No.” Steve says, “We don’t want to clue them into us in the area this close to the assault if their patrol doesn’t return. The troops have dropped by now - the assault’s an hour away. They’re not a convoy - they won’t see the spikes unless they’re looking for them.”

Peggy’s hand lays itself on his shoulder, pushing him lower and close to her; out of sight. Steve stifles his breath, and if anyone asks it’s to keep quiet to avoid detection; not for any other reason -_not at all._ Peggy’s similarly silent, though she’s suppressing a smirk which unveils to Steve he’s not quite fooling her. They wait for them to pass - voices growing louder and closer before moving further away - before setting off again. They walk a few paces in silence as he checks his compass to ensure they’re still going in the correct direction. Peggy glances over at his open compass to check herself before it clicks it closed. When she speaks her voice is quiet and low for their surroundings.

She starts the conversation again. “I take it you’re asking me to try harder with him--”

“No not--” Steve interjects, realizing she has the wrong idea. “--not harder at all. I know you’re already putting the feelers out there just - give him a bit more time?” He suggests. “He’s not like that at all, normally, you know? In the pub or after, he’s just going through some stuff.”

She nods, considering. “We can hardly blame him for that.” She concludes, soft and understanding. “You’re worried.” She notes after, looking at him sideways.

He shrugs as the answer is pretty evident. “It’s not something I’m used to - with how easy he’s always taken things in his stride. It’s usually the other way round but --” He sighs, trying to explain. “It’s like sometimes he’s the same old Bucky; cracking jokes and making me laugh, or driving me round the bend with his antics, and other times…”

“Not.” Peggy finishes for him.

“He’s trying.” Steve says, because _good god_ Bucky is trying for the most part - on most things. He feels a little bad that he has to ask her to keep putting up with Bucky’s attitude, but, this is important to him. He believes that’s a normal feeling - everyone wants their friends to like the girl of their dreams. “Just give him some more time if you can - I’d - I’d like for you to be friends, or at the very least get on.” He repeats his earlier sentence rather lamely.

“I’m not entirely good at making friends.” Peggy says, but she nods a _yes_ that she will continue to try. “I have to admit, I tend to rub people up the wrong way sometimes.”

“That’s fine.” Steve laughs, “he’s great normally. Now...you just have to catch him on a good day.”

“Do they come often? The good days?”

“Here and there.” Steve says, and raises a hand in greeting as Antonio, Dugan and Morita appear from the trees back from their road sabotage grouping. “You’ll know when.”

“Very well.”

He pauses and stops her too for a second. “Do you really think he’s jealous of me?” Peggy laughs and pats him consolingly on the shoulder again as an answer - already speaking to Antonio.

. . .

The attack when it begins starts with the Free Belgium 7th infantry in a full frontal assault. The Hydra sentries spot them coming from over a mile away, which is what they are expecting. Their troops move swiftly out to engage the attack while they’re still making their way towards the compound, leaving behind a skeleton crew to guard the facility.

Steve and his team watch the proceedings from a high wooded ridge overlooking the other side of the compound. The explosions sound, and then the gunfire grows heavier and more erratic - Hydra send out their second wave - confident and cocky enough not to even attempt to radio for any reinforcement.

Gabe’s tuned radio, listening to reports and order formations cuts off in static. He gives them a thumbs up - the last and only remaining local radio line goes dark - Bucky and Dernier’s timed work.

_Nice one boys,_ Steve thinks with glee - energy already rising. He pushes the adrenaline building up behind his eye-sockets down, holding it ready and waiting until the assault to unleash it all.

Antonio, eyes on his watch, ticks his fingers off. “07:59.” He says, “railways are blown too.”

“Hérés à la révolution.” Gabe notes in reference to the _Belgium Libre_. (“****Here comes the revolution.****”)

They settle in several feet apart, binoculars out and watching as the HYDRA troops go, more and more and more. It’s going all exactly as planned, until HYRDRA releases their mounted infantry from the outlying garages.

“Energy tanks,” Steve says in alarm as they appear out from the doors of the engine garage. “Like in Krausberg. A _lot of them _\- did we know there was that many?”

“Yes.” Antonio answers.

“Not our problem right now, Cap.” Dugan notes.

He knows that but, “the other troops.” A lot of the Free Belgium troops are going to die - too many. These tanks, all eight of them, are going to eat through those men - a big sacrifice for some intel. He doesn’t like the feeling of sending men to their deaths, he’d much rather do it and take the risk himself himself. “They can’t contend with that.”

“Wait for it.” Peggy says from his left.

“Wait for what?”

“A surprise.”

“Carter?” Dugan asks with a grin. “_What did you do?_”

“We may have gotten inside one of the outer garages for an hour.” Antonio says, casually, “we also might have jammed the treads of some.”

“You didn’t.” Dugan’s grin grows with Jones’. “You bloody maniacs.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment, just so you know.”

“You’re_ meant to_.”

“Good.” Peggy replies. “They’ll move out, but every tread turn does more damage. The treads should snap about - a quarter mile from the assault wasn’t it Toni?”

He hums an affirmation. “We figured that would give them just enough cock-sure confidence before we hit them where it hurts. Knock them’ back a peg or two. By the time they realize it was sabotage it’ll be too late.”

“Oh look,” Peggy notes, right on time, “it looks like their having technical problems.”

Steve follows the direction of her binoculars and takes a look for himself; then grins. “Well, would you look at that, it seems so.”

One of the tanks splutters to a stop, and the metal of the tread sheers a metal segment off - jamming the whole mechanism. The tank is stuck stationary half a mile from the base. Steve is rather enjoying the looks on their operators faces as they emerge and start shouting.

Leaves rustle behind them, they spin, and Dernier and Bucky appear.

“Pose-les, imbéciles.” Dernier says lightly. “Il n’y a que nous.” (****“Put them down you fools,” Dernier says lightly, “it’s just us.”****)

They dump their heavy packs in the foxhole they’ve dug and replace them with empty packs to ram full of intel. They all have the same to take in and take out with them. Bucky crawls his way onto his front next to Steve and whispers, “Don’t tell me you’ve come back with a hard on?”

He scrunches his hand into the soil at the tease. Luckily Peggy is further enough away and focused enough not to hear. “I already told you. _Stop_.”

Bucky grunts.

“You know for the fact that you’ve got a problem with her - you’re very pushy towards the two of us.”

“I have my reasons.” He says, “for both. How are we doing?” He adds, motioning forward before Steve can fire off at him again; admitting outright the attitude is deliberate.

He hands Bucky the binoculars to look through for himself. “Nearly there.” He answers, “just waiting for them to move fully out - two minutes and then we move.”

“Sounds good.”

Two minutes later Jones holds him from behind as he fires out a zipline at the nearest corner of one of the main buildings; stood taller than the rest of the factory and identified as the most credible wing for intel. As soon as it lands and is weighted down from the other side, Steve tugs on it to ensure it’s secure, then hooks a pair of handles over the line and off he goes. He zooms along over the trees, curling his legs up to clear the top of the electric fence that surrounds the compound before slamming into the concrete wall of the building. Swallowing down a pained groan, he dismounts onto a window ledge and smashes the glass as quietly as he can, then slips through an empty office. He locks the door, then returns to the window and signals to the others. One by one they all come sailing down the zip line for Steve to catch them by the legs and hand them down through the open window.

Antonio is last, touching down after Peggy, and under their direction; the boys start moving down the corridors. They systematically secure each room, and comb them for potentially useful files and other information; and if they seem particularly viable; tag the doorways so the two operatives know. With the bulk of HYDRA’s soldiers out defending the base against the Infantry the only personnel they encounter are scientists and engineers, men untrained in combat - most of whom are easily apprehended before they can alert anyone to the silent infiltration of the building.

“Not a sound!” Steve whispers, grabbing a technician round the chest and over the mouth. The man bites him, and then struggles with a muffled yell. _Apparently not._ Steve knocks his head against the wall so he’s unconscious, throws him over a shoulder and carries him down the corridor. He unlatches a knife from his belt and throws it one handed. The target cuts of mid-yell as it strikes deep into his spine - running for a doorway - the blades sluices through flesh - Steve hears it scrape and cut through a knob of the man’s spine. This is the part he doesn’t like his hearing for - _God._ Two seconds later the man is dead when Steve reaches him, and he quickly drags him and the man on his shoulder into a cupboard before the blood leaks on the floor. The blade grinds against the bone it broke when he pulls it out, wiping it down quickly on the man’s uniform - his eyes are staring out, glassy, at a unmemorable spot on the wall. He leaves the dead and alive men where they are - this mission there’s no time to remove the cyanide pills - with any luck he’ll be unconscious for a good few hours.

He slips down the rest of the corridor and slips into another workroom - it’s plain walled but rather busy with material and builds - weapons it seems; some kind of suit - there's metal and plastic casings laid on the tables ready to attach to prototypes. Steve quickly moves to the desk, grabbing files and blueprints and leaving the rest - all of it too large to carry out with him. He’s cleared most of that room out so doesn’t tag it, but tags the next one - what looks like the adjoining office and records room. He grabs and knocks out too more technicians, and then a third and forth - and three guards. He seizes the third by the uniform, blocking his swinging gun; bashing it out of his hands before he can fire. It clatters to the ground, louder than he’d like as twists the man over the shoulder; softens his blow to the ground to keep the volume down. He punches him in the face after. The guard’s out instantly, so he drags and locks several in another cleared room - four out the seven are dead. The sixth’s he doesn’t entirely know what happened - his blood was so high and without thinking he moved - a gut feeling, a gut _force_ -_ the serum_ \- and then man was _dead._ His ribcage is bent unevenly from where Steve hit him, you can see the difference through the fabric of his shirt. S_teve Steve Steve, dammit, watch yourself, _he criticises_. Stay in control._

When he emerges Steve spots Bucky with his knife at one of their throats, hand on their mouth, herding them into one of the main rooms they’ve secured for prisoners on this floor. He can’t see anyone else, but he can hear them ever so silently moving throughout the compound, and hear the _flash flash_ of Antonio’s camera in another tagged room as he documents everything they can’t take with them.

He finds Peggy in one of the side rooms, blue prints rolled and spilling out of a holder, and files shoved in her backpack. There’s two other half filled packs beside her that she’d shoved inside her empty one before they arrived. She’s halfway through cracking the safe hiding behind a painting. Gabe’s across the room helping her spritz their way through viable documents.

“What are we looking for?” Steve asks, running quickly to help them - the boys have secured this entire wing it seems - and like Peggy said, this is the first agenda.

“Communications, Hydra personnel files, blueprints.”

“Got it.” Steve says, and starts shoving paperwork after a quick scan into his bag too - there’s records on records here. “You want me to try bash that door in, Agent?” He asks briefly as he listens to her turning the dial and listening with a stethoscope for the clicks.

“No. It’s alarmed. You smash it - you set it off.”

“How can you tell?”

“The walls not concrete - it’s hollow - there’s wires running along to the side of the safe. Have to do this the old fashioned way.” She says.

…. Someone suddenly manages to set off an alarm, and then its all sirens and flashing lights as the facility goes into lockdown.

“Well, great,” Peggy groans, “that’s done it.” She grabs an entire drawer of files and starts dumping all of them into her bag; slinging it over her shoulder, then switches back to the safe; which clicks open as Steve takes over the rest of the room. He doesn't see what she removes from it. 

“You got what you need?” Steve asks as he moves back with her into the first office; sprinting down the corridor. Antonio is already halfway out the window.

“I hope so - try not to get into too much trouble, I’ll see you at the rendezvous.”

“I’ll be there.” Steve promises as she jumps off the sill and rappels down the side of the building. They’re Team A, the boys and he are Team B - Team A is the first exit out as a precaution so the SSR can ensure at least some intel gets out in the worst case scenario.

Team B is to ensure there is no worse case scenario; and to finish the job - so he goes to do just that.

He takes out another eight or night men, and keeps going - one man runs for him and Jones trips him from a doorway; just behind Steve's path. They carry on - then decide to split apart. 

Steve’s end of the building is blocked at one end by a pair of steel doors that slammed shut the moment the alarms activated. A quick examination of the control panel beside the door indicates that it can be unlocked with a special key and correct pass code. Or, alternatively, a heavy blow with a chunk of viburnum. Steve breaks through the door with a smash, shield raised, and charges straight into the group of Hydra guards who have gathered on the other side.

He goes through them easily, like a knife through warm butter; he doesn't stop until they're all down and then continues on, skidding to the entrance of one of two glass walkways connecting the main building to the outlying blocks; he lays down his own explosives stored in the front pockets of his pack. Dernier’s in the other one; he can see him through the glass. Steve waves an arm down to signal. Then he runs, and Dernier detonates them both right as the next round of Hydra men run and try and retake it - it leaves only one connecting walkway to this building now.

The sound of the blast combined with the ensuing yells, gunfire and partial collapse of that section quickly attracts all the remaining HYDRA soldiers who are still in the base. There are two few of them to pose much of a threat though, and they barely slow the boys down. Now with their cover blown Dugan seems under no reservations to stay quiet, firing at a run and skirting corners with a yelling howl. More troublesome are the scientists; the ones who try to fight are easily taken care of, but others try to flee with samples or research documents - and those even more loyal begin burning them. Steve knocks, takes down or kills those that do - but then he has to go about putting out the fires before they envelop the rest of the workrooms and save what he can for the pack on his back. The rest have to be chased down, and a few of them even break down in cries and pleas for mercy.

One shows his true colours the second Steve gets close - but his guard isn’t down.

_“You expect a battle to be fair,” Bucky had said during one of their hand-to hand sparring sessions, after the only match he’d managed to beat Steve in. Steve had blocked one arm on a swing and Bucky used the other to punch him in the testicles, then tripped him for good measure. “You know this from street fights you doofus. Never let your guard down.”_

When the man swings out with a scalpel - aiming for the femoral artery on Steve’s thigh _he’s ready_, and quickly darts back and kicks his boot into the side of the man’s head. Another later on turns and tries flings a liquid at his face; Falsworth shoots him as the acid splatters either side of his curved shield. Another does the same to Dugan, or tries to when he enters the work room - but catches him on the hip instead of the face luckily when he jumps back and fires. The shotgun shell explodes through the scientists neck, and Dugan howls out in agony as the acid burns through his clothes in spots. Dernier comes speeding in from a HYDRA kitchen and throws milk on him; which helps burns more than water does - and he seems to recover. Steve learns new things everyday. Dernier takes over from Steve covering him as he gets back to his feet.

“You good?” Steve yells already across the hallway - kicking another into the shelves of a now broken glass cabinet. The worker slides to the floor, back bloody.

Dugan grunts, limping a little. “Ye-yeah, I’m good. Gas is one thing, but acid - these guys are sick.”

The speed their way out of one building into the centre of the base - and in the distance heavy shells being fired from HYDRA and_ at_ HYDRA by the Belgian forces are distinct. They’ll get to them soon. The boys split and run in trios to the third and fourth building blocks - where the base opens up into an almost courtyard. Guards start firing out from one window and a walkway, so they back themselves to cover behind a wall. More stomp onto the walkway bridge connecting the buildings together and the gunfire picks up more - and right before Dernier pulls a clip of a grenade to give Steve to throw at them - he shoves the man forward away from the wall. He grabs Dugan by the elbow and yanks the both of them together into a pile of sandbags. Glass shatters where their heads just were and the contents start sizzling as they hit the dirt.

From the third floor a technician heaves his arms back to throw another beaker of acid. Steve’s shield cracks him in the chest, a lucky shot at this angle, and the beaker smashes on the man’s head as he hits the ground, there’s a lot of yelling, but under it, Steve can hear the sizzle of skin as it burns through the muscles of the man’s face. Bullets split the sandbags to the left, and Steve shoves the boys but they’re already moving trying to get cover. Another beaker of acid smashes behind Steve, but when he throws his shield this time it cracks against the window frame and not the person behind it. He tries his gun, but none of them can get the angle - the beakers keep raining down in a shower of glass and burning bubbles from several floors now. Steve moves the others forward, trying to take the brunt, his shield held above him like an umbrella. The bullets from the walkway on their left keep getting closer as they’re out of cover from the wall - and more join in from a walkways on the right. The acid rain keeps coming - and gunfire is echoing everywhere; cornering them in. Four shots go of, a _crack crack crack -- crack_ \- and it’s the sound Steve has tuned his ears to recognize as Bucky’s rifle. The acid rain of foaming beakers stops above them, and there’s spitting cries as the skin of any still alive inside begins to burn off and blister when they drop. Steve looks over his shoulder, and Bucky’s moving up towards them; barrel against his shoulder. A fifth shot goes off and all sound stops on the third floor workroom above him. Morita’s covering him at at run, and where Dugan has been limping; his jacket is scorched away at the shoulder. He's moving stiffer but luckily it looks as though that acid didn't erode all the way through.

“They toss that shit at you too, huh Cap?”

“Seems so.” Steve grins at his friend, the takes two grenades from Dugan, one from his own belt and throws them at a run both sides. They land on the centre of the bridge walkway - the right side explodes before Steve’s does, a casualty of Dernier’s suicide run underneath the legs of the structure. It takes out a good chunk of the leftover guards excited at the prospect of trapping them between them.

“Whoohoo!” Dugan howls out.

. . .

When it’s all said and done and they’re rounding up the prisoners they took from the first building - the ones they knocked out or those who didn’t try to trick them - most have bit down on the cyanide pills in their teeth or stabbed themselves in the neck with a pen if they didn’t have them. A few others have managed to break the locks and escape.

“What’s the bloody point?” Falsworth says as he looks at the foaming mouths and bloodstains mixed with black ink.

“There is no point.” Bucky says, from somewhere to Steve’s right as Morita wrestles with a half-awake man, trying to pull out a cyanide capsule from a tooth before he fully wakes up. Falsworth goes to assist. “If they wanna’ off themselves let them.”

“American scum!” A female technician spits at him, only one of four still standing.

“Nice to meet you too, ma’m.” Steve replies faux-brightly back.

Gabe speaks up, calling around the small crowd of them. “Cap, this one says he wants to surrender.” He uses his gun to prod a paunchy, middle-aged man towards Steve, keeping his distance in case the man tries to turn on them like their colleagues did. “What do you wanna do with him?”

This is their first willing surrender.

“Shoot him.” Bucky suggests immediately before going back to making pot-shots at lab equipment with an energy gun he picked up from a dead guard. “Shoot all of them.”

“No! Don’t shoot him!” Steve orders sharply. The man is clearly terrified, with both hands raised, babbling in a combination of German, Polish and broken English. “We don’t shoot prisoners. We’re not going to hurt you if you cooperate.”

Steve refuses to kill unless he has no other choice; he has decided from the beginning to give the Nazis a chance to surrender honourably, the way all of them should.

“Like hell.” Bucky interjects, dropping the energy gun and scowling at Steve. “He’s Hydra, just shoot the bastard with the rest and move on.”

“Bucky he’s an unarmed civilian--”

“Bullshit he is---”

“---and he’s giving himself up.”

“He works for _Hydra._” Bucky hisses at him in fury, eyes sparking as if that should settle it.

“It’s unlawful to shoot prisoners. It a war crime.”

“Hardly seems fair that the guys committing the war-crimes get a free pass, Cap.” Morita mutters.

“_We_ are not committing war-crimes. We don’t shoot prisoners. And work for Hydra - so did Erksine once, _unwillingly_. Soldiers aren’t the only ones Hydra hurts Bucky.”

Bucky scoffs quietly but Steve’s in charge. “Says the guy who’s never been hurt by them.” He mutters, supposedly out of Steve's earshot.

“Besides,” Steve says, withholding his wince and allowing that to slide. “He might have useful information. Just stick him in one of those cells in the outbuilding and we can take him back with us later. Separate cells to them.” He adds belatedly, once he catches the threatening and murderous glares on the faces of the three other prisoners.

Dernier sets charges on the key points of the rest of the facility. The rest of them check their weapons and store their file-filled packs and the prisoners in the outbuilding; and prep to go join the battle still ongoing in the distance. They load up in two Hydra tanks, energy powered again, and roll on out - Dernier detonates from the back of the tank and quickly reduces all except the prisoner outbuilding to a smoky concrete husk.

They take them from behind Hydra’s own lines, with Hydra’s own tanks - and Steve discovers reading German controls really isn’t that difficult once you’ve got the hang of it - firing the awful weapon at the people who created it. He tries not to think about if the soul gets obliterated with the body when he pulls the trigger, then what happens? - _These men are going to Hell anyway, aren’t they?_

As they come swinging round the corner to Hydra’s heavy artillery; he, Bucky and Falsworth jump out with a belt of charges each. Steve launches himself onto each tank, pulling open the hatch and pulling out the driver. Falsworth flings the belt at him from below - he catches it, drops it, and bashes the hatch down so it stays closed. He jumps off it as it explodes, two steps; and he does the same thing with another. Bucky flings his belt high cause he’s always had a good arm and likes to make Steve work for it - and then they both run into the centre of the fray. The Free Belgium forces cheer when they see him, and the cheers get louder with the more men he kills.

They return to the lone outbuilding to retrieve their packs and the prisoners to hand off to the SOE agent and squad of troops to transport to SSR custody; a long crowd of troops following in trucks and tanks. The numbers haven't been fully counted yet - but the number of Allied dead stands at about ninety something, probably more. The numbers for Hydra are higher.

“I don’t like this,” Bucky keeps muttering on their way back.

“Yes, you’ve said.”

“He’s up to something. They all will be.”

“Maybe. Maybe not, it’s a risk we have to take. He hasn’t taken swing and tried to kill us yet, even if the others have. They all go to custody.”

“Great.” Bucky snarks sarcastically, “that’s so reassuring. Thanks so much, Steve.”

Steve closes his eyes and sighs, “We don’t shoot prisoners. I’m not saying it again. I’m in command here.”

“I never said you weren’t. I’m just saying. It’s a stupid idea.”

Steve sighs again, harshly through his nose this time, and stops him with a hand to the chest. The others continue past and the Free Belgium Army waits behind. “I get it okay. You don’t agree, and you’re upset. I get why.” Bucky scoffs, “or maybe I don’t. Because _you won’t tell me_, but you need to_stop_,” he emphasizes the word, “questioning my orders in front of the others.”

Bucky glares at him and then looks away. “I’m not disrespecting you.” He says flatly.

“You don’t mean to.” Steve replies and Bucky looks back at him again, “but you are doing.”

“They know who’s in command. None of them are stupid enough to follow my orders instead of yours.”

“Even so. Stop. I’ve already told you how this is going to go.”

He looses Bucky’s eyeline again, and his friend rolls his tongue around against his cheek as he thinks of a response. “Sorry.” He mutters, “I didn’t--”

“I know. Just cut me some slack, will you? I’m not gonna’ let anyone stab me in the neck with a pen when I’m not looking. Or you. Or the boys.”

“Howlers.”

“What?” Steve asks in bewilderment.

“We’re the Howling Commandos now apparently.”

“Right, are we?” Steve says, swallowing back amusement. “One guess as to where their nickname came from. I won’t let anyone stab_ me, you,_ or the _‘Howling Commandos’_ in the neck. Okay? Those prisoners your stressing so much about won’t even be our problem in twenty minutes.”

“Fine. But for the record, in private--”

“You don’t like this. Shock horror.” Steve says, and shoves him forward as Morita returns with Bucky’s pack stuffed to the brim.

“Everything good, Cap?”

“Yep. Just running over the next movement to the rendezvous.” Steve bluffs. “We good to go?”

“Right as rain.”

“Great, lets get out of here. Our man and woman are waiting at the airfield.”

They leave the prisoners with strict instructions to the SOE agent and take the name of the man who was willing to surrender. The same man is now cowering and shaking away from the others, who it seems have spent the entire time while in separate cells threatening the man and his family. “Keep them entirely separate.” Steve orders the troops.

“Of course sir, that’s great. It was a hell of a thing to work with you.” The agent and commander both say in one way or another before they leave them. They blow up both the tanks they stole the same way they did the other enemy tanks so no one can use them, and start the trek back up the steep cliff they started on; collecting their main packs and then clambering through the hole in the fence of their rendezvous at the airfield several miles away a few hours later. Antonio follows their path with a rifle from the window of air hanger _Quatre_, Steve spies the muzzle wedged into the corner frame. Peggy is peeling through their takings on the floor.

“We have a plane coming in at 04:15 in the morning to pick you up.” She says as greeting, turning her head this way and that as she tries to read a rather complicated blueprint for something. “How did the rest go?”

“They threw acid as well as grenades at us but we held strong.” Dugan says, rubbing at his sore hip. Steve field-dressed it when they left; but makes note to check that and Morita’s back again before they make the next jump when he can. “We brought you some more presents though, Carter.”

“Is it, by chance, more intel I will probably spend hours slaving over?”

“It just might be.”

“Then pull up a stool and give us a hand until dawn.” She orders - so that’s exactly what they do. Steve peels through the reports, reading what German he can from what he remembers of his phrase books, and they sort through what’s the most useful and what isn’t. He tries to focus, but where the others seem to only hear the wind whistling into the eaves of the hanger and the birds - Steve seems to be able to hear the sluice of flesh and the grind of bone as his blade strikes spine. He tries to focus, but all he can think about is how today was the first time he physically saw the life go out of the eyes of someone he actually killed.

“Hey Cap,” Gabe says, whose looking through the records of assigned missions and communications. “does the name Heinz Kruger mean anything to you?”

“Um, not sure. Why?”

“Rebirth was on June 22nd, right?” Steve nods. “His name’s written down here - Target, New York - operation blah blah…on the 22nd…assigned mission June 15th.”

Falsworth, whose on personnel files, says “I think I might have that guys file here. Yeah, I do. There’s a photo.”

“Let's see.” He says, and takes a quick glance, his voice becomes strained when he sees it - “He’s the man who murdered Dr Erksine.”

“Ah…right, okay. Makes sense.”

“Essential pile.” Peggy says. She stands sharply, seemingly having had enough with something. “Take a walk with me, Captain?”

He jolts to attention, mind snapped back from the grind of bone. She raises an eyebrow at him, and it’s definitely not a question with an answer other than_ yes_. “Uh okay, yeah.” He says, ignoring the waggling of Dugan’s eyebrows in the corner.

“I have something from command we should probably discuss before the plane arrives.” They have hours yet until the plane, it’s only just started going dark, but he gets up to follow as she inclines her head in the direction an old pilot office. She strides towards it, a file still in her hand, and whacks Dugan over the head with it as she goes past with a well-defined smack. He hears Gabe and Bucky snort with laughter as Dugan splutters.

“So what’s up?” He asks as he enters the room and sits on the edge of the desk. “Did Philips have a separate message for me--”

“Oh, no.”

“You said you had something from command.” Steve frowns.

“Yes. It’s called a lie, Steve.”

He huffs in a annoyance, still feeling raw. He’s already gotten snark off Bucky today, he doesn’t need it from her too. “Yeah okay. No need to be condensing.”

Her face falters from the poker face she’s wearing to something soft. “I’m sorry,” she says, the first time he’s heard her apologize to anyone. “I don’t mean to be.” She shakes herself out, “sometimes I forget I don’t always have to be on game all the time.”

“On game?”

“Nothing.” She waves off. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Of course I’m fine - I’m not hurt--”

“I’m not asking if your physically hurt Steve, I’m asking if you’re alright? You seem…I know what a man looks like when he’s been spooked.”

“I’m not--”

“You’re spooked.” Peggy interrupts, “by something in the assault. It happens to all of us. Would you like to share? Maybe I could help.”

He sighs, licking his lip. He’s only good at Poker because he used to fly under the radar, and could keep his face straight throughout - not because he's good at lying - though it seems his poker face must have slipped somewhere. He tries to wave off. “Its stupid.”

“It’s not if its bothering you.”

“Agent Cart--”

“It’s Peggy, Steve. Call me Peggy when we’re alone.” She says, sitting opposite him in a chair. “Steve,” she says, leaning forwards. “You don’t have to be on death’s door for your problems to be important. And whatever is bothering you,” she continues, “especially if it’s something… philosophical - then I find it good to invest in an objective opinion.” She hesitates, “if you like I can fetch one of your ‘howlers’ (she says the new nickname in amusement, as it had been told quite seriously to her) if you prefer--”

“No!” Steve blurts, arm out to stop her despite how she hasn’t moved. “They would--they wouldn’t understand.”

Peggy takes that in. “They seem good enough men to me - what makes you think they wouldn’t understand?”

“Well they might but…They’ve--they’ve been in war for a long time and I know I’m not exactly fresh blood anymore - but, they have context - built up experience with…god, I don’t know…”

“With how it feels to take a life?”

She’s staring at him softly when he looks up at her guess. “I’m their superior officer,” Steve starts, _I’m trying to gain and keep their respect, I don’t want to risk loosing it,_ “I can’t have them thinking I’m cracking up this ea--”

“Compassion for your enemy is not cracking up Steve. It’s not a weakness.”

“It feels like it is.”

Bucky, in the mission of opening Steve’s eyes of naivety before they shipped out had called it a ‘hell-pit of mud and blood but one we have to fight in to be free.’ Now he’s starting to realize how true that is, and it’s suddenly discomforting to come to his own revelation of it with the grind of bone on a knife - or glassy eyes staring at an unmemorable spot on the wall. He killed in Krausberg and on the march back - but they were men caught in explosions and a rush of blood and serum - and then he was in Scotland. After that - their first mission - due to the preemptive action with the cyanide not that many lives were lost. Steve can’t claim them all as self-defence as he once could. He knew he’d have to kill when he joined the army, but knowing it and physically doing it is a different ballgame, no matter how imaginably easy it is with his own hands.

“It’s not.” Peggy replies, “and I think they may actually surprise you. Every person goes through this, even if several of them have a …particular state of mind on the subject now - but if you don’t feel comfortable then that’s fair enough - I’m hardly one to talk when it comes to wrestling for respect in the ranks. And not to say I don’t have a not-so-rose-coloured outlook either - but perhaps I could offer some assistance.” She quips after to coax a smile out of him. “I only judge unfairly those who underestimate me - and you’ve never done that, so you’re more than safe there.”

“I’d never dare.” Steve says softly in return, lips quirking. He rubs his eye with one hand. “People died, but not particularly by me from what I remember in France. The shield puts a lot of distance between it.” He admits, “the serum even more. Even the sabotage assaults - a few may have been caught in the blasts but - most of them were unoccupied or distracted when we made our move. Today--” he can still feel the blood on the leg of the suit when he dragged that guard into the cupboard, or on his fingers when he took a scientist’s badge after kicking him onto a hundred shards of broken glass. The sound of that technician crying out when the acid exploded on his face instead of Steve’s head. “We attacked first - hand to hand and…it was like my brain was on auto-pilot and then they were just dead in front of me. It's the serum - Bucky noticed it in Scotland - it takes over sometimes before I can control it. It's hard to explain.”

"And that's what's bothering you? Not feeling like you're in control?"

"No.." He answers after thinking for a moment. "I'm learning to pull myself back now...it's..." Somehow, suddenly, he realizes where this is coming from and releases out: “The Bible, it can be awful confusing sometimes.”

Peggy blinks at the change, but rallies. “In what way?”

“It’s a sin to kill - it’s literally the most important commandment - but then it also dictates death as a punishment for unjust actions as just - and how it’s acceptable to spill blood in the pursuit of spreading the word of God or to discount evil intentions. And it’s always in my brain that - things like guns, and knives and everything are wrong, until they’re not - and then they just add weight to a moral argument. But how do you know? Where’s the line between a just and unjust murder - because you might think the enemy has evil intentions - but then it could also be you with the evil intentions and…”

“I don’t think you have evil intentions, Steve.”

“That’s not….that’s not what I’m trying to say. I’m not explaining this very well.”

“No, no. You are.” She disagrees, “The truth is there’s nothing that can tell you what is just or immoral - that has to be your own belief. I have to say, I’m probably not the best person to speak to about religious connotations of faith - I’m afraid I can be rather sceptical but, but I understand this at least - and I really like that you’re not. Sceptical, that is. You’re optimism is a good thing, Steve.”

“I don’t want to be naive about it. I never have for anything else in my life but…I keep thinking if I’m going to feel this way every time I fire a bullet or break a bone, then I don’t want to - and I should stop - harden up - become a real solider.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I disagree -"She argues quite frankly, "loyalty, decency, compassion, love - that’s what makes you _you_. That is the reason Erksine picked you. I believe he told you this.”

Steve ignores that last part. “I’m starting to think emotions cloud judgement.”

“They can sometimes,” Peggy admits, “but they also serve a purpose. It’s said those that don’t allow themselves to feel that find themselves worse off in the end. You struggle through, and you keep firing bullets because that’s what needs to be done. But you don’t need to close yourself off to do this - you already have the willpower - that’s not something Erksine, _or_ the serum, gave you.”

"So you don't think I'm over-thinking it?"

"Not at all." She replies. "I think this is an entirely normal reaction that a lot of people went through when this war began - when anyone joins the army even. I think," she purses, "I think it's all just come a little delayed for you suddenly, because you've been so focused on so many different things, one after another - there hasn't been time for you to react. Think about it: After Krausberg you had to focus on how you were going to get all those men to safety across two countries, then in London it was putting the team together and debriefs and press - and then you focusing on training. You've been putting a lot of pressure on yourself - and honestly Steve, you're holding up admiringly."

"You think?"

"I do. You'll probably find, if you ask, that those lot through there have all felt the same at the beginning. So you're assuredly not alone."

Steve looks at the ground as Peggy lets him take that in. “You’re very good at pep talks,” he says eventually. "Better than Bucky even.”

“I’ve been told I’m very wise if I put my mind to it.”

“You are.” Steve agrees, “Thank you, Peggy.”

* * *

[PHOTOGRAPH #3421, REEL 2. TAKEN BY: CPRL. ANDRE JANSSENS. DESIGNATION: WAR PHOTOGRAPHER PRESS ID: 367843 BELGIUM, 3RD FEBRUARY, 1944. OPERATION: REDACTED.]

**SEIZED BY THE MINISTRY OF INFORMATION AND STRAGETIC SCIENTIFIC RESERVE.**

**NOTE.** CPT. CHESTER PHILIPS - _Not cleared for Press. Seize with all records with IMMEDIATE EFFECT. Memo distribution to all departments._

* * *

.

. 

NEXT TIME ON MAN THE GUNS, THE HOWLERS ARE COMING:

  
_“I’ll hazard a guess that's the weapon Philips warned us about!” Falsworth yells from his own position - trying to fend off three at once in close quarters._

_“That’s bigger than the shittin’ HYDRA tank we took!”_

_Visible through the now gaping doorway is the source - a massive canon that swivels as they speak - a size that suggests it may be one that’s going to be placed on a roof as air defence. There’s more behind it still packed up, packaged and non-functional for the moment. Like the tank in Austria it builds in a hum - a pulsing blue glow in the depth of the barrel is the only warning Steve gets - aimed right at him. Oh dear._

_._

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have PART 14, a switcharoo of POV'S, and a day early at that as a treat! So the commandos have had their first two real Hydra missions, with a few others along the way; and gained a new name in the process. Does 'Captain Nag' and 'Trouble and Strife' approve, do you think? And, most importantly - does anyone have any more suggests for lyrics for Star Spangled Man with a Load on - the boys are still toying with a third verse; they may need some help.  
Last chapter was a smooth start in Steve's POV, and a little more rocky in this one - while Bucky is all over the bloody place. This does not surprise me, even if I'm the one who wrote it, ha! We also met Antonio, and Peggy let be known her opinion on what she thought has been going on between those two crazy kids, is she right? She also stepped up as an ear for Steve to lean on - do we think her advice is something Steve should take? Or should he go with his gut? Who can even be right in that scenario? 
> 
> Things will be picking up quickly from now on as you may see from the NEXT TIME, so stay tuned and please let me know what you think! I love each and every one of your comments, and if you need it - I hope this is a semi-distraction from the craziness of social media at the moment. Stay safe! x
> 
> REFERENCES:  
Our Lady of Beauraing Religions Apparitions a.k.a Virgin of the Golden Heart: is the title of 33 Marian apparitions reported in Beauraing, Belgium, between November 1932 and January 1933 by five children whose ages ranged between 9 and 15. For several years after the apparitions, pilgrims flocked to the small town of Beauraing, province of Namur (Belgium), and many cures were claimed. She is celebrated under this title on 29 November, and it was a approved and classed as a real sighting in 1949 after a decade long review and investigation by the Vatican. There was in fact, also a cult related to it. Very interesting. THIS I did not know until I did an random eenie meanie minee mo to pick a location on the map close to where it looked like the base was on Zola's lab map! Then I did my history delve and figured, why not put it in? 
> 
> PANER TANK: German light artillery tank - used often in patrols of towns and cities as it was thinner and could fit down smaller streets. There was normally the crew that drove it and several soldiers that rode on the back of it.  
LE SOIR & LA LIBRE BELGIQUE NEWSPAPERS: La Soir was the newspaper run by the German-Belgian collaboration, whereas the La Libre Beligique was a newspaper run and printed underground. Both wildly different as they both contained different types of propaganda (cartoons, accounts etc.) along with different news stories as they often reported on completely different things - the La Libre newspapers of their time got a lot of the information/troop movements/news by listening to banned radio channels such as De Gauile or the BBC; and then distributed the news to the public.  
WALLONIE: Viens a Nous! PROPAGANDA POSTER: A real poster of the time. See it here: https://www.hrp.co.uk/ekmps/shops/hrpbizzy012/images/wallonie-ss-viens-a-nous-poster-271-p.jpg  
FREE BELIGIUM ARMY - Following the invasion of Belgium, a whole chunk of the Belgium Army was essentially evacuated to Great Britain with it's government-in-exile (7th Infantry was one of those divisions) where they based themselves and underwent more training. They were known as the Free Belgium Forces.
> 
> ps. I may do some of my own propaganda posters if I have any time and if I'm happy with them - but we will see! Otherwise at least expect more Telegrams and War Photographs throughout. They are currently all be seized by Philips - but will that change?


	23. PART 15 (a.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time Steve thinks of Bucky on that table, he can't help but think about all the time he wasted playing a big-shot in the USO instead of making his own destiny the way he always said he would. He never gave up on trying to enlist; no matter the pitfalls - he would have gone on for his eighth, ninth, tenth enlistment if he needed to; and even now he has no idea why he gave up and just took what was given to him after Erksine died.
> 
> Dancing is not a trade for torture, and it’s always something he’ll probably always think about too.

_._

_ PREVIOUSLY ON MAN THE GUNS, THE HOWLERS ARE COMING: _

_"So you don't think I'm over-thinking it?"_

_"Not at all." She replies. "I think this is an entirely normal reaction that a lot of people went through when this war began - when anyone joins the army even. I think," she purses, "I think it's all just come a little delayed for you, all at once. You've been so focused on so many different things - one after another - there hasn't been time for you to react. Think about it: After Krausberg you had to focus on how you were going to get all those men to safety across two countries, then in London it was putting the team together and debriefings and press - and then focusing on all that speedy training. You've been putting a lot of pressure on yourself - and honestly Steve, you're holding up admiringly."_

_"You think?"_

_"I do. You'll probably find, if you ask, that those lot through there have all felt the same at the beginning. So you're assuredly not alone."_

_Steve looks at the ground as Peggy lets him take that in. “You’re very good at pep talks,” he says eventually. "Better than Bucky even.”_

_“I’ve been told I’m very wise if I put my mind to it.”_

_“You are.” Steve agrees, “Thank you, Peggy.”_

* * *

STEVE

“You okay?” Bucky asks when he gets back, busying himself with opening up the large brown envelope Philips left for him, targets for the next base. They’re hitting the one in Czechoslovakia next; or actually, when he reads them - two in Czechoslovakia. “What was that about?” He motions his head to Peggy, whose tying and labelling each pile of intel ready to move out with the plane.

“Nothing,” Steve says privately, not sure if he wants to share it. “Just, just talking. Handing over Philips’ orders in more detail.”

Bucky huffs downwards. “That was lie.” He says, “but fine, I’ll ignore it. How about the first question, are you okay? You’re doing the thing with your hands.”

Steve frowns, abruptly looking down at his hands, shifting them in and out of each other lightly. “What thing?”

“The thing you do when you’re stressing and want your rosary.” The -_ he has a thing? _ “You’ve been doing it since we got back, on and off.”

“Oh right, nothing - nothing you need to worry about.”

Bucky glances at him sideways, “Right. Okay fine.” His tone is of acceptance and dismissal, though his face says otherwise.

“I talked to Peggy about it, is what I meant.”

Bucky nods, looking away; and somehow Steve feels like he’s made that worse.

. . .

The orders in the envelope are sharp and clear; the schedule tight. There’s two targets, the main large base they know about with a few varying aerial photographs, and a second temporary base which is just as important. There’s intel been leaked that a perceived new weapon has been moved, stored in a old village called Štědrá or somewhere nearby. There’s going to be a field test down in Italy before it’s moved into true production, so they need to intercept it before it makes the journey across the border, and then destroy it before it reeks destruction on Allied troops or on an innocent town.

“Hydra aren’t just in the main Czech base. We’ve got reports of troops hours away - they blasted through a detained station when the train carrying it got stopped for checks.” Antonio notes when Steve goes to him for any extra details, as it was one of his ears that leaked the information. “Whatever it is it’s powerful enough to turn the course of a battle; more than those tanks. They could be storing it in a air-force station, a barn, a village - it’s somewhere. Reports say they’re moving it on the 10th."

Steve nods, “So we need to find it and act quick.”

The quickest way into what was Czechoslovakia but is now part of the German Protectorate is by flight. They have to fly around and over three countries to avoid being shot down in heavy German airspace, but it’s still dangerous. Unlike when they dropped into France and made their way up; they’re dropping into heavily armed territory with heavy air defences.

It’s all very last minute, and so Morita jumps in right off the bat and asks if they have the material to make something called _chaff._

“What’s that?” Steve asks.

“Foil and wire - you throw it out before to mess with the radar systems so they can’t pin you down.”

Peggy shakes her head, “I’m sorry, no we don’t.”

“Damn,” Morita says, “next time then.”

“Yeah, next time, and every time.” Steve repeats - anything to help his ‘howlers’ land safely is something he wants as a requirement. 

“I’ll mention it - “Antonio says, “when I’m back in London, see what I can do.”

Peggy can’t, as she won’t be in London for probably as long as them; tagging along on their plane while Antonio waits for his own with the intel. The plane rocks with turbulence for hours at the highest altitude it can reach to stay out of range, and then the class-act pilot drops to jumping height an hour before their drop point.

She bids them goodbye, with a “I’ll be seeing you” and tips herself backwards out the side exit while they all cling to the netting to avoid getting suctioned out with her. Steve slams and air locks the door behind her, watching her disappear into a dot before the plane veers back up into the clouds.

. . .

He thinks a lot about what Peggy said to him during the jump into Czechoslovakia after going over the plans once more with Bucky - who he can tell is still silently curious about what was spoken about. He seems almost insulted he’s been barred from it when Peggy wasn’t - and his mood has dropped since Steve’s telling off outside the base. Him asking after Steve’s nerves is the only thing he’s said for hours; instead reading through documents, focused and equally distracted both.

Half the documents they’d gone through were coded in random numbers and dashes, and make as little sense to Peggy as to the rest of them - though he does notice Bucky’s confused gaze going back to them more than once; and how he fingers those sheets longer than the ones that are legible.

As the open wind and clouds rush past his face, straining his skin back and turning his breaths short, he twists sharply to avoid shells fired at the fleeing pilot. He thinks:

_You don’t have to be on death’s door for your problems to be important. _He finds he quite likes that, and might use it himself.

** **. . .** **

** ** ** **

<strike>[PHOTOGRAPH #3419, REEL 2. TAKEN BY: CPRL. ANDRE JANSSENS. DESIGNATION: WAR PHOTOGRAPHER PRESS ID: 367843 BELGIUM, 3RD FEBRUARY, 1944. OPERATION: REDACTED.]</strike>

** <strike> **SEIZED BY THE MINISTRY OF INFORMATION AND STRAGETIC SCIENTIFIC RESERVE.** </strike> **

_ _

** **BESCHLAGNAHMT AWAY VON ALLIED POSSESSION VOR SEIZURE. VERTEILEN SIE ALLE HYDRA-BEAMTEN. SIEHE "THE AMERICAN" - IDENTIFIZIEREN SIE BILDER, DIE FOLGEN SOLLEN. **** ** **ZIEL VERANTWORTLICH FÜR DIE ZERSTÖRUNG VON KRAUSBERG, STRASBURG & GOZEN. ** **

****HINWEIS: VISCOUNT**** \- HOHE PRIORITÄT. IDENTIFIZIEREN SIE "DIE AMERIKANISCHEN", POTENITAL SCHWÄCHEN - FAMILIE IN DEN USA.

* * *

_(TRANSLATION: CONFISCATED FROM ALLIED POSSESSION BEFORE SEIZURE. DISTRIBUTE TO ALL HYDRA OFFICERS. SEE "THE AMERICAN" - IDENTIFING IMAGES TO FOLLOW. TARGET RESPONSIBLE FOR DESTRUCTION OF KRAUSBERG, STRASBURG & GOZEN. _

_NOTE: VISCOUNT - HIGH PRIORITY. IDENTIFY "THE AMERICAN", POTENITAL WEAKNESSES - FAMILY IN USA.)_

* * *

** **. . .** **

It’s not just his moral decisions he has to watch. The serum takes over in the middle of the action too - his body reacts before his mind does. He’s been learning - and let’s his body do what it needs to do - but he ensures he stays in the drivers seat. He thought it was adrenaline in the beginning on his first self-issued mission, but realized after that shambles of an exercise in Scotland that it in fact wasn’t. He lost himself in the energy high in his first and second firefight - he remembers the motions but not the important parts.

Logically he knows he killed his first man at Krausberg. He doesn't even have to think about it logically to know that, but he can’t remember the man’s face or even where it was - at the watchtower, in the explosion, in the firefight after - he was so caught up in the motions of _move, fight, take them out, save that man, save that man, fight, where’s Bucky, he’s escaping stop him, move-fight-move, _that it's just - gone. He should be able to remember the first, and second and third man he kills, he should be able to remember the faces of all of them - and how it felt to take a life for the first time.

He remembers how it felt to witness death for the first time, a tabbied stray cat passing away in his arms, in pain, after it was hit by a milk cart. He remembers the sound of it’s yowls and the feel of it’s fur and how the tension in it’s limbs sapped away as it went. He remembers how it felt; remembers almost crying. He'd said they should put it out of it’s misery, and Bucky agreed but he also refused to do it himself.

Steve had stayed in that alley working himself up for it - then Bucky came back with his aunt who was over for the week - and the woman told them to step away and to let her.

_“You young ones are going to keep that innocence.” She said, even though they were nearly eleven and her children, younger than them, had seen animals die before. “Farm folk are different from city folk, young man. You and your friend go inside James.”_

_“It’s Bucky.”_

_“Yes yes, I know. Just go inside.”_

_Bucky had said, “Steve lets go.”_

_Steve had said, “You go, I want to - I want to stay until she goes, she’s calm with me."_

His first kill will be not a pleasant memory, and idea floats around that maybe his own mind removed it so he can compartmentalize, but he feels almost robbed. He should know if he felt scared, or guilty, or justified, or nothing at all.

. . .

“Can I ask you a question?” 

They’ve landed in Czechoslovakia, a mile apart from each other since they had to jump from so high, but it’s nothing they weren’t expecting. No one got shot out of the sky, which is always a_ spectacular_ start. They’ll rendezvous by the end of the hour, and then split into two groups - one reconing the main base, the other seeking out if the town of Štědrá is the correct location of this weapon, and if not - where is it? The bases are several hours from each other by car. Then they’ll reconvene in a day and a half.

He just happens to find Bucky first, still in a foul mood, landing not too far from him and already moving while Steve was trying to untangle his parachute from a bush it was caught in.

“About what?” He replies, edging along the side of a field and rolling his wrist and ankle out from where he landed on it just on the line of wrong.

He’s not limping though, so he’s fine. They've both transferred their packs from their fronts to their backs now they no longer have to wear the parachutes; Bucky's rifle still in pieces within so it wouldn’t trigger on the landing. He’s already reconstructed his Thompson, which was only in three pieces, and is carrying it by the strap. Steve has parts of Jones’ main Browning M1919A4 in his pack, along with his own sidearm on his hip that he loaded the second he landed. He’s carrying his shield on his arm; his supply pack and folded up parachute on his back.

“First guy you killed?”

Bucky jolts, taken aback by the turn. “Really?” He asks, “what is it with you and depressing subjects lately?”

_A little rich coming from you, _Steve thinks at first, already a little spiteful._ So much for trying to make you feel better by including you. _He knows from personal experience exclusion is something Bucky takes _particularly_ personally, considering it’s not something he’s ever really had to deal with in life. Steve remembers that very well from Spring in 39’.“Never mind.”

It’s probably a stupid question with how long Bucky’s been in the army, unconcerned with worries of sin when it comes to Hydra and the enemy - battered into the indifference of death. This was what war did. This was why he didn’t want to speak to--

“No no, alright.” Bucky says, quickly, realizing. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you remember him?”

Bucky sighs, “He came up in front of me on my third day overseas - I shot him in the stomach. I was so scared I didn’t pull the trigger again for the rest of the day.”

“You didn’t?” Steve asks quietly, hollowly surprised despite it. Steve had stayed with the cat when it passed because it was on his lap, but Bucky hadn’t, he remembers now. He didn’t want to see it.

“Nope.” Bucky says, popping the _p_ in the casual way he does when he wants to emotionally distance himself from something. “Dugan covered for me. He did it for the other green boys too. That’s how you can tell a good Sergeant from the bad.”

“You were scared?”

“Terrified.” Bucky says, looking forward as he walks. “Then I got over it, cause I had to - but it was still horrible.” He stops, swallows, then says: “You put a bullet in someone and you're not you anymore - but then you wake up the next morning and you are still you so…so you realize that was you all along, and you just didn’t know it.”

That’s so strongly insightful Steve feels it deep in his bones, just like he feels _You don’t have to be on death’s door for you problems to be important. _Peggy’s not the only one whose is wise. That’s exactly what it feels like now, he just doesn’t know what it felt like _then_; the first time. His memory is supposed to be better than that.

“The more you do it the easier it gets,” Bucky says, nudging him, “and I guess sometimes it’s right if it’s an evil person, or when you’re just trying to survive…but the first is always the worst.”

“I think my tenth was the worst - if it even was that number. I can’t remember the first,” Steve admits, “I feel like I should feel bad about that.”

“Knowing you, you already feel bad about enough things, Steve, there’s no point adding extra loads on top.”

“So you think I should compartmentalize, push it to the side?”

Bucky shrugs, “it’s what the rest of us do; cause we gotta’. It’s better that way.”

Steve hums, thinking that over; but he’s not surprised that’s Bucky’s opinion considering his ambition at the moment is to seemingly shove _everything _to the side.

“Is this what you were talking to her about?”

“_Her_ name is Agent Peggy Carter,” Steve says, lightly in response to his unfavourable tone. “…and partly, yeah. Funnily enough you have two very different opinions on what I should do.”

“Colour me surprised.” Bucky bites sarcastically.

“Knock it off.”

“She’s not here.”

“I don’t care. Knock it off.”

“I’m just trying to help, Steve. I can’t solve every one of your existential crisis's.” He grumbles in dispirit, “no doubt we both know who’s advice your going to take.”

Steve huffs, “You don’t know that at all, _actually_. And I was trying to include you so you stopped being so sore about it, maybe I won’t next time.”

“Fine."

“_Fine._” Steve says pointedly, then squeezes his eyes shut. _Why is it nearly every conversation turns into an argument on days like this?_ Sometimes Steve feels like it’d be better just to leave Bucky to his silences, there’s no winning on either side if anyone attempts to broach it. He hardly thinks that Bucky counts their petty fights as a win either.

“Gabe’s stuck up a tree.”

“What?” Steve blurts, and Bucky points ahead of them to a collection of large oaks, a tangled parachute, and black man trying to cut himself free.

“I said, Gabe’s stuck up a tree.”

Steve huffs with laughter this time. “So he is. Shall we leave him or give him a hand?”

“Leave him.” Bucky says at the same time they approach to help. He’s a little scuffed up from the tricky landing, but otherwise fine. It looks like he’s managed to cut all but one line, stuck on the last one tangled behind him where he can’t reach.

Jones twists round to yell at them. “I heard that, you dunderheads! You wanna give me a hand here? The last string is all caught up, I can’t twist myself to get it. Otherwise I gotta cut the harness.”

“Think we’ll leave you to it actually.”

“I don’t know what happened to you as a child to make you act like a socipath, Sarge, but I will remember this.”

“Okay okay,” Steve laughs, already up the tree and hanging off a branch, grinning. “We’re coming.”

. . .

** **

The Bucky that Steve knows has never been wild; aside from those few short years when he wasn’t quite on the cusp of adulthood. They were both reckless; but Steve was the wild one; the troublemaker; the, you could say, bad influence. Though he didn't look it, so therefore it was never believed much outside of their close neighbourhood; who unlike the rest, knew Bucky was merely the loud, expressive mouthpiece for their antics; Steve the 'mastermind'. Steve, when upset, gets raucous and empathic with frustration, Bucky gets quiet. Steve has a known stubbornness for battering out the problem until it's sorted; Bucky, on the other hand; stews.

Like Steve he's thoughtful, and frightfully insightful sometimes; cool under pressure, even when Steve's getting the jeebies beaten out of him - it's probably why he's such a good sniper. The main thing though, is that he used to be bright and clear and all smiles and good humour - but it’s different now; since Azzano.

He tries, Steve can see him trying sometimes; he totally can, and his heart breaks a little bit more every time he never quite manages it. It doesn’t shock Steve that Bucky’s old upset silences have become deeper and darker - and how he spends long periods meticulously cleaning his and everyone else’s weapons; lost in thought to escape the world for a few short hours at a time; _stewing, of course_. Time after time Steve, and Dugan frightfully so he knows, have learnt not to push him on it. But even so, and probably forever, Steve wants to; with every moment that passes he forces the restraint _not to _to the top layer.

Every time Steve thinks of Bucky on that table, he can't help but think about all the time he wasted playing a big-shot in the USO instead of making his own destiny the way he always said he would. He never gave up on trying to enlist; no matter the pitfalls - he would have gone on for his eighth, ninth, tenth enlistment if he needed to; and even now he has no idea why he gave up and just took what was given to him after Erksine died.

Dancing is not a trade for torture, and it’s always something he’ll probably always think about too.

. . .

Czechoslovakia is very different to France and Belgium. The people, when he spots them far and in-between, seem like like ghosts from the corner of his eye, pale and living unhappily in this new world order. There are less people around, entire communities cleared out; and Steve easily identifies why when he spots the kosher butchers shops and the crumbled synagogues. The areas they are in are worse; as not only have they been under Nazi occupation for longer than France, but they’re explicitly under _Hydra occupation_ instead. Peggy and Antonio had said they were surprised the commandos hadn’t come across the Hydra presence in Belgium, but they definitely have here. Where they don’t see Hydra guards, and goons, and armbands - they see the posters, the propaganda - the fear people have.

The power of Hydra doesn’t only come from the technology, it comes from the perception of their power, and the perception is dangerous.

Even the normal men_ in uniform_ don’t seem like real soldiers when they come across them in Eastern Czechoslovakia; returned from the deadliest Eastern Front in the first months of 1944. Primarily they just seem cold and uncaring for anything else other than a warm fire. They’ve caught six groups so far - having given themselves away for measly campfires with coal that cools far too quickly.

Steve feels sorry for them.

Bucky continues to twitch at night over the next four days, and his mood like always is swings and roundabouts; he teeters on the edge of paranoia, or silence, or anger, or excitement and Steve struggles to keep track. Their pointed _‘fine’s’_ to each other seem to be forgotten on his part, and Steve tries to do the same. It’s hard, until Bucky occasionally graces him with a special grin, and then it’s not and he’s happy to pretend in the face of Bucky’s lighter days.

Steve asks after him, a lot. He’s always waved off, sometimes with silence; but most of the time with witty comments and humour, or causal shrugs. He disguises it well - a mirror of his old self when really he’s a little bit of a shadow.

“With how often people have said no to you, you should be used to it by now.” He quips at Steve, not even a little bit sorry.

“Oh wow, we’re going there now, are we?” He replies lightly. “Bit harsh.”

“Hey, you’re the one who never wants to be coddled.” Bucky throws back before spinning away to volunteer to do the very last two hour drive to recon the main base. Steve takes the investigation into the temporary weapons holding with Dernier, Gabe and Dugan; the latter just to limit the chances of tension with another _unnamed_ member of the other team. Intel was wrong, it’s not housed in Štědrá, it’s housed in a even more obscure village called Víska. 

“Watch out for each other,” Steve says to Morita, “don’t get caught, don’t get seen.” What he really wants to say is _‘keep an eye on him, would you? He hasn’t slept.’ _He finishes with, “you know the drill.”

_One of these days_, Steve thinks, _I’m going to say no back._

. . .

While there’s a lot of things can be said about Bucky at the moment, one thing they can’t say is that he’s not efficient. He’s Steve’s best, and most competent commando, pragmatic and insightful and always prepared for any and all eventualities. Navigating Europe without him is not something Steve thinks he could do; professionally in the field, or emotionally in himself.

"You go ahead, clear the way - just like we practiced." Steve says; they've been practicing moving silently behind each other for the last day and a half; and who is best at it after Steve is exceptionally clear.

Bucky nods.

"The trick is to not fire until we need to--"

"Silence is key, I know." He snarks back at Dugan, "I'm not an idiot."

Dugan jolts back, "I didn't say--"

"Guys." Steve cuts in before it starts.

The remainder of the journey passes in silence. Everyone is on edge and hyper-viligent, but apart from one Hydra patrol which they take by surprise, dispatching with a minimum amount of fuss, they don’t run into any more trouble until they reach the what he imagines used to be a busy, if quaint village. The plan is for Bucky to go in first and take out the perimeter guards so that the rest of them will be able to slip in undetected and take it from the inside, moving in waves until the last group is rounded up and the weapon destroyed.

Night is beginning to fall as he edges out from the trees on the outskirts, dusk setting in blue and grey, while Steve and the ‘howlers’, as they’ve newly been dubbed, watch and wait. A Hydra solider is on guard nearby, shoulders hunched against the wind as he paces slowly back and forth along the length of a metal fence. Bucky pads cautiously over the twiggy ground on his tip toes, none of them cracking, keeping to the deepest shadows and out of the guard’s line of sight.

He’s only a few yards away when he suddenly stumbles, and with a snap he drops waist deep into the ground, scrabbling to catch himself.

“Oh hell!” Falsworth hisses. A ground trap! _This wasn’t in their recon - the grounds supposed to be all clear._

Bucky manages to grab onto the verge so he doesn’t fall further in the deep hole, hanging on by a single arm. The guard startles and turns round. Eyes widening in surprise he lets out a cry of alarm and raises his gun. One of Bucky’s knives flies out of his other hand two seconds before the guard’s gun fires. The crack of the bullet echoes out. Steve’s already moving.

The knife strikes dead-centre of the guards chest, at the joining of the chest plate, and Bucky springs his grip off the edge, dropping down right as the bullet splinters the twigs of the trap wall instead of his head. He disappears into the hole. Steve hears him grunt as he hits the ground with a thud several further feet down. Bucky didn’t use his gun but even so one fired - everyone in the village must have heard the gunshot. There's no chance of sneaking in quietly anymore.

“Go go go!” Steve orders-shouts behind him, running as he and the others break from the trees to race towards Bucky, whose jumping to find purchase to climb out the trench. Steve vaults over the fence. There’s no time to help him out, the others are just coming up to the fence themselves.

There’s a squad of Hydra soldiers heading their way at speed to investigate the gunshot, helmeted and masked; other-human. They spot the Howlers immediately. The two groups charge at each other, shouts and bursts of gunfire snap out as they all plunge into the fight.

“Bucky stay down!” Steve orders with a yell to his friend stuck eight feet below in the eye of the bullet storm. More shots start coming from elsewhere, the Howlers only two feet from the fence. Bucky’s swearing below but there’s nothing he can do - Falsworth takes a wrong step, about to break cover. With a yell he scrambles - the ground dropping out from under him too. Gabe drops down, latched onto the back of his jacket. With the jerk Falsworth manages to gain purchase by pitching himself forward, catching on the other side like a star fish. Jones heaves him by the jacket, dragging him sideways. A bullet splits his arm open as it scores a lucky line down by his elbow. He swears, voice sharp with pain, loosing his grip on Monty - he has to snatch his other arm out to use instead. Dugan and Dernier fire in defence of them, allowing them to get back to cover as Steve takes point. He hurls his shield further, tosses a handful of dry dirt into the eyes of four men - and cracks several more around the back of the head before rounding back on the blind men. His shield knocks down a Hydra solider, and then another on the rebound before he catches it in time to deflect a shot from someone else. He rams it into another man’s ribs. Soon the HYRDRA soldiers are all dead or unconscious, but the wailing of an alarm siren warns that more are on their way.

“This way! Keep moving! Watch your steps that side of the fence.” Steve orders, but they’ve already managed to get to the boundary with no more trench drops. ”Bucky, hold your position!” He yells as an afterthought.

“Defend my position? I’m stuck in a fucking hole!”

With the advantage of speed and surprise the Howlers manage to fight their way to the centre square of the village while their opponents are still getting organized. Hydra's defensive efforts seem to be focused on a large stone building near the town square, an old garage of some sort, which Steve figures must be the location of the weapon they’ve been sent to destroy. A Dernier-special grenade takes out several of the guards gathered around the building, leaving the rest stunned and vulnerable to the Howler’s ensuing attack, and they manage to clear a space in front of the entrance, but their initial attempts to batter down the iron-clad doors prove unsuccessful.

More and more HYDRA soldiers are appearing every minute now, and it takes all the Howlers efforts to hold them off, one man down, while Steve backs up far enough to fling his shield at the doors. It hits them with a dull clang, bouncing off so he can catch it, about to go again. There’s a small shallow dent in the newly reinforced metal surface but otherwise it remains secure. He winds his arm back - the doors burst from the inside - not only giving way but splintering into an explosion of hot molten shrapnel - and he throws his shield back up in front of him. The metal glances of his shield, splattering glowing liquid-metal either side of him in a spray.

"The hell?" Someone yells, seeing it.

A blinding beam of blue-white light narrowly misses Steve but incinerates two HYDRA soldiers in the throng behind him - siphoning out to smash through a closed restaurant on the far side of the square.

“Mary mother of--_what the hell is that?_” Dum Dum yells to everyone and no one, ducking and then cracking a goon in the face with the barrel of his Winchester shotgun.

“I’ll hazard a guess as to the weapon Philips warned us about!” Falsworth yells from his own position - trying to fend off three at once in close quarters.

“That’s bigger than the shittin’ HYDRA tank we took!”

Visible through the now gaping doorway is the source - a massive canon that swivels as they speak - a size that suggests it may be one that’s going to be placed on a roof as air defence. There’s more behind it still packed up, packaged and non-functional for the moment. it builds in a hum - a pulsing _shuddering_ _crackling_ glow in the depth of the barrel is the only warning Steve gets. He throws his shield back in front of him, unable to square his feet, and _god bless the Lord_ it doesn’t obliterate with him, but the force is strong enough to toss him head over heels. He flies into a wall across the square, bouncing off the side of a truck bonnet. Stones crack and crumble on the impact. He feels a rib crack, groaning; his muscles vibrating in shock at being thrown. He barely scrambles into a crouch - has to fling himself sideways on the ground as a third fires at him, singeing the fabric and hair on the side of his leg.

“_Ah_!” He yells as the energy rips past him, rolling to his feet.

He’s ready for the fourth, and runs at it, feet squared; knees bent, and forces the shield forward with a tilt as it hits, bursting - then rebounds like a bullet at the building - taking out a huge chunk of the roof; he stumbles slightly. The mechanism charges;_ fires_ \- Steve’s braced low on the ground this time; the consequence a jerking skid in the mud. He’s safe behind the shield, so long as he locks his feet. 

He yelps, grunting; muscles tensing. Blood spurts in a score line over his shoulder, painful and _hot_. Someone, a bad shot, just shot him from behind - _jesus, he only has one shield; _**_**come on ma**_** The shield judders; blue light bursting and bouncing off; there's a very loud boom as something collapses. Gun's click again, and he ducks; dodging left. A bullet spears into the concave of his shield, spearing off; he half turns; _blue burst--shit! He can't_\--

Morita avenges him; he drives a cargo truck into the whole lot of them; _crash-squelch_; then reverse-turns just as quick; parking it at Steve's back to block any more shots so he can do what he needs to do. He's getting closer with every step; one by one.

_Hum - crackle, bang-burst-blue-blue-splat-crash!_ Two more shots and Steve’s grunting and crying out with effort, feet halted for a moment - but the deflected beams are just destroying the building the weapon’s housed in like he planned. Steve peers over at a sudden break, ready to run, calculating the angle to deflect it directly back at the weapon - and with a click it swings the barrel away from him to aim at Dernier and Gabe. The former is forcing the soldiers back to keep them at bay while Jones clumsily tries to reload his Browning with the next chain of bullets, blood-slick fingers slipping from higher up his sleeve. The cannon hums and fires - Steve lunges to the side to block the shot. The beams hits the edge of the shield and rebounds harmlessly to the ground - leaving a blackened molten crater in it’s wake. The impact knocks the shield out of Steve’s grip though, and he’s flung in a twist sideways. The shield skitters away to the right - he goes to run for it, catching himself on his knees instead of his side, dirt in his eyes from the close call. The cannon swings back the other way.

He jerks in the opposite.

He barrels into Dugan at full speed, knocking the wind out of the Sergeant and into a trio of attackers. The shot goes wide, but wouldn’t have if Steve wasn’t there.

“What-_the-fuck-Cap_\--” Dugan gasps out, trying to catch his breath - Steve kicks at a Hydra solider in the pile, punches another in the throat; fires his sidearm - and time seems to slow to a thousand miniature milliseconds as blistering blue light hurtles at his face. The air ripples around it, and with a jerk of his knee he vaults over Dugan’s body on the floor; rolling them sharply. He practically throws the other man several feet away - the blast tears through the metal engine of the car, shrapnel everywhere. It’s a miracle none of it hits either of them. He checks to make sure, but it does seem like his tackle has taken Dugan out of commission.

“Sorry!” He yells out, trying to outrun the beams, darting in all directions and ducking wide gunshots, occasionally taking out solidiers, falling back to the corner wall of the building. He needs his shield - he needs - a masked HYDRA goon has his shield.

Howard’s going to_ kill him._

A bullet spears through the guards neck, and he drops the shield as Falsworth catches it at a run and tosses it to him with it’s usual Frisbee arch. “Rodgers!”

“Thanks!” He yells, voice more of a squawk. The moment his fingers close around the edge he spins and swings it out, blocking another shot at Dernier and Gabe. Vibrations tear through the muscles of his arm as he barely contains the blast from wrenching his shield from him again.

“Get out of range!” He yells at them because they have no defence against this thing and every moment he has to shield them is a moment longer that the weapon exists in the world. They move - still firing - as Steve deflects a shot into the innards of the building. A corner wall explodes, stone collapsing, and he throws his body and shield at the side of the barrel instead of Dugan this time. The gun rocks sideways, unstable; its not secured down - only stored temporally - and he shoots the operator through the glass casing. The glass cracks like a spiderweb around the hole - the operator jerks back against the headrest without a sound, red splatters out of his third-eye and onto the glass behind him, bullet spearing through his skull. He rams the weapon onto it’s side - tipping it and the dead man inside over, and zeroes in on the glowing blue fuel source. _This is probably a terrible idea_, _but hey, terrible ideas are his forte. _ He goes to do it anyway.

“Retreat back! Run!” He orders, using his shield to ping another bullet into it’s originator, punching and kicking the others who come near. He shoots three more with his sidearm - part of him still wincing inside as he does. _They’ll kill you otherwise_, he reminds himself. He throws a knife the way he was taught in Scotland, and starts moving so fast he doesn’t know where he begins and ends; but remains in his head and in control.

The boys scarper - already knowing the tone for _this isn’t a 'we’re losing retreat,' this is a ‘I’m going to do something really dangerous and there’s probably going to be an explosion retreat.’_ He waits until he judges them further enough away, firing and fighting the Hydra hold-outs as they run down the village street - and takes out several more on his own from where they’ve deliberately run out at him from the main square.

The boys are in the distance - far enough. He swings his shield up with all his might and rams the edge into the glowing core. The material fissures into a crevice, and the weapon starts shuddering with a spluttering instability, shaking the floor with the force. A hum builds; the furniture and crates in the building start rattling with a clatter - the ground rumbles - glass cabinets left in the corner crack from the pressure. He yanks the shield out of the cleft and runs at full speed out of dodge. He’s on the other side of the village - nearing the boundary - the boys are pitching it at all hell in front of him - Hydra are running behind him too in panic. He easily outpaces all but his boys who had more of a head-start. The humming rumble builds like a quake - light blares out behind him in a shock-wave. His shoulder and side ram into a postbox, crunching the metal as he’s thrown forwards with a blistering burn across his back. Sonic heat rushes past his face in the after-burn of air, stinging all the hair in his nostrils and ringing in his ears.

For a good ten seconds he's blind and deaf.

“Ow.” He groans, panting.

Someone’s coughing out dust; sparsed in the air from the cobbled turned burnt-dirt. He hears a worried call of : “Cap?”

He waves an arm up to signify his position - before he can reply a crack of gunfire echoes out to what was his forward but now is his twisted sort of side - a recovering HYDRA guard starting for him goes down from Jones’ gun.

“See, you motherfucker.” The man groans, “I do know how to reload.” If Steve could guess then he’s probably talking to Dugan.

He twists onto his side and knees, squinting around him. His eyes widen to baubles - _Jesus Christ Almighty, Holy Mary Mother of God_. The buildings of the street just end in a jagged line of molten stone and wooden beam - half a door of half an abandoned Kosher Butchers Shop remaining; the rest obliterated. Steve can only read half the sign, glimpse half the Hebrew letters - the rest is just_ gone. Just gone._ On the edges of the stone there’s a glowing blue and black residue, lathered on like tar, while the rest of the village is just - _good god._

_Day and night they encircle the walls, while malice and trouble lie within._

_Destruction is in her midst;_

_Oppression and deceit do not depart from her streets._

There’s a blackened crater - no bodies, no bricks - nothing. He’s laid next to a disused fabric shop which was a good distance in front of him when the blast hit. He’s been thrown ten meters, maybe more; his side and the cut on his shoulder ache something fierce, but there's heat elsewhere. He runs a hand over his hot back, but his padded uniform while warm remains un-singed for the most part, and as he feels along his face he realizes it’s scuffed up from hitting the rubble; and red as if he's been sunburnt. The crumbled post-box is tangled up in his legs.

“Cap!” Falsworth calls again, stumbling towards him as the others return to their feet. “You alright?”

“Never better,” he grunts, “If I ever think about doing something like that again, remind me of this day, and if I ignore you, punch me in the face until I see sense.”

Falsworth laughs, “Oh don’t worry, I’ll bludgeon you - bloody hell,” He looks around, “where’s your shield?”

“No idea.” Steve says, getting to his feet.

“t’s over ‘ere!” Dernier yells, and suddenly has it in his hands as the two of them make their way over. Steve glances back at the cut off crater._ What a shit show_, he thinks.

“What a shit show.” Dugan says.

_Yeah, no kidding._

“Lets go. We need to be out of here like yesterday.”

“Not to mention we’ve got a Sergeant to retrieve.”

They jog at speed, Morita winding a bandage around Gabe’s arm as they run - and Dugan fires out a shell from his shotgun. There’s a grunt and then a scuffle of more steps. “There’s a cockroach. There’s a cockroach.” He says, but Steve’s already hit the other HYDRA agent with his shield before he can get a shot off. Dugan shoots the man’s collapsed body in the side of the ass and back so he can’t follow them or get the word out that they’ve been here. Which is an absolute guarantee anyways, after that. A _fucking disaster_ \- Steve thinks, _god, this is so bad._

They approach the fence, vaulting it again, and there’s several bodies collapsed backwards, fallen away from the hole Bucky’s in. Most of them are head-shots from where he must have picked them off when they stuck their heads over to shoot him like a sitting duck.

“Hold your fire!” Steve calls, “if you shoot me in the head I’m gonna’ be mighty pissed!”

“About time!” Bucky yells back. “Do I even want to know what the fuck that was? Half a mound fell on me.”

“You really don’t, man.” Jones grunts.

They reach the hole and lean over. Bucky thankfully does not shoot any of them in the head. His face falls into shadow as their figures block the sun from where he’s stood in the pit of plans gone to shit. He has his Colt in his left hand, his right fist scrunching in and out like he landed on it wrong. Good thing he’s halfway to ambidextrous with how often the nuns used to correct him with cane when he wrote with his left hand instead of his right, though Steve’s never seen why what hand you write with should matter. Bucky looks at them with a face on; heavy and guilty.

“Well that went well, so much for a silent strike.” He says, with the dull tone of sarcasm.

“Understatement of the fucking century there, Sarge.”

“This is so bad.” One of them cuts in to say right as Steve orders:

“Search the boundary, we need to know how many got away.” It wasn’t fully manned to how it could have been, but at the turn of the fight he knows several retreated, and there was a crackling short-wave radio in that weapon garage - so Hydra got a warning out. It would have only gone to one place - the main base in Czechoslovakia - otherwise known as their next target. The whole reason they hit this one first was so that they could take it without the other base knowing, shutting it down in silence so they could lay waste to both. They couldn’t do that the other way round - the main base is going to be a hell of a assault. They should have been able to take this silently if it wasn’t for Hydra and their hidden traps.

Half the boys disperse and the rest get a head-start either looking for a truck to hot-wire or legging it back the two miles to where they parked their own.

Bucky says, “anyone wanna give me a hand here?”

“Yeah yeah, I’m coming.” Steve replies, already on his stomach. “Gabe, watch my six.” He orders, swinging a hand into the pit. Bucky jumps and grabs hold after a few moments and a few leaps, hands slipping on the cold sweat of Steve’s. There’s something oily and slippery on his; but he eventually manages to secure a hold on Steve’s wrist instead of his hand. Steve pulls as Bucky braces his weight so he can walk up the wall of patted-down cold dirt. He slips several times, swearing, but makes it up.

“Fuckers covered the sides in grease,” he explains, crawling back onto normal ground with a jolting boost from Steve. His hands, his gloves hanging from his pocket, and areas of his jacket and trousers are layered with a shiny residue. He’s also covered in soil from the many times he must have landed in the dirt. Now that Steve looks he can see crevices half carved out with a knife as Bucky must have tried to make handholds when he kept slipping. There was no way of getting out of there without a boost.

As soon as he’s over Steve says, “right lets go” - and pushes him towards the road to run back to their truck. Dernier comes whirling round and down the road of the village in a new truck; slams on the breaks so they can get in. The three of them clamber into the outside bed with Dugan in the passenger side. Dernier curves round the village, truck bumping over cobbles and crater-residue to pick up their last men doing boundary runs. He jerks the wheel sideways as they drive over some blue-black reside and the tyres start to sizzle. Falsworth and Morita are last, skidding to a halt on the road as Dernier stops. Morita skids all over the truck as he clambers in - covered in shiny grease.

“You too, huh?” Bucky says, dully.

“Not as deep as yours luckily. Jesus, I’m covered in this stuff.”

“I almost lost a leg to one too. Some of em' have spikes at the bottom” Dugan calls back too. “Things are everywhere.”

“Took down one runner, but couldn’t see any other goons.” Jim reports to Steve after, who yeah, thought he heard a gunshot somewhere in the vicinity Morita took off in.

Falsworth reaches them and says, “Just found the main vehicle house. Dirt turned up, trucks gone - several got out at least - they know we're coming.”

“Damn it.” Steve curses as Dernier guns it down the road, round a corner and back onto the forest paths. “They had a radio too, so - how long until we hit the base?”

“If we don’t stop and drive through the night - three and a bit hours hours, maybe four? That’s on the main roads though, and that’s if we don’t get stopped - there’s like seven checkpoints on the main roads. Other roads four to five hours. ” Gabe guesses, estimating as he tries not to drip blood on the thumbnail map Steve’s trying to unfold.

Steve knew that, but he was really hoping someone would tell him different. Czechoslovakia is a country of fair size, and under Nazi regime for longer than France; the infrastructure is more solid. “That’s too long. We were supposed to hit them unawares.”

“Not a lot of luck of that happening now.”

“Exactly.” Steve says, “so stick to the main roads, avoid the checkers if we can but..." he decides, "smash through any checkpoint we see. Screw it. Getting there right now is more important than how we get there. One problem at a time.”

“You wanna hit it as soon as, Cap?” Gabe asks. “It’ll be pitch black then - for us, but not for them with floodlights - and it’s not like we can use it to our advantage to stick to the shadows when they’re expecting us.”

“Who are you kidding,” Morita, trying to see the bright-side, laughs. “It’ll be fun, for old times sake. We’ll steal another tank.”

It’s worth a try, but the upbeat tone doesn’t stick as it normally would.

“What a fucking shit show.” Dugan says again, and that saying, no matter how many times Steve hears and thinks it, is not getting old.

“Shit I’m, fuck, Steve, I’m sorry--” Bucky starts.

“It’s not your fault Buck.” Steve says straight away, because its not, there was no sign whatsoever of those pits: You wouldn’t know they were there until you were already falling into one. Goddamn Hydra.

“These things happen, Sarge. You know that - this ain’t on you.”

“It’s a little on me.”

“We don’t have time to argue that now, we need a new plan.”

He tosses his map back into the pocket of his thigh as Dernier skids to a halt, suddenly. They pitch it off the car as Gabe grabs the two cans of diesel on board to run to the cargo truck they’ve been operating out of since they landed in Czechoslovakia, where they left all their gear.

Steve and Bucky shove the branches off the bonnet, Dugan gets the sides, and Morita already has the engine started up.

“In in in.” Steve orders at speed, even though it’s going to be a long nightmarish drive. Hydra could be regrouping, rearming, reinforcing as they speak - and they’re on their own here, there’s no division distraction as in Belgium. The rest of them pitch it into the back with the crates and Steve’s motorbike. Jim, now at the wheel, peels out of the thicket of trees and back on the road.

. . .

One hour in they smash through a checkpoint, breaking the wooden beam across the road and hit one solider on the way. The rest chase them on foot firing, and when they try to follow by truck Bucky shoots the front two tyres before they can start the engine. One hour and twenty minutes in they pass what he thinks is a local, and several sheep who are making a very hectic escape from a nearby field. The sun’s gone, and the lights of the truck glint off the wide eyes of owls in the trees, and the form of a deer. Two hours and seven minutes in a barrage of heavily packed trucks spike past in the other direction, moving slower than them, carrying more weight. He’s not exactly sure what gives it away but Morita seems to make eye-contact with the driver - and just _knows w_ith almost certainty it is Hydra.

They’re fleeing, pulling out all their assets to protect them from the coming battle.

“Cap!” Morita shouts, about to call it. Before he can Jones and Bucky start firing rounds and rounds of bullets out of the back of the truck flap with Jones’ Browning and Dernier’s grenades.

The tyres burst in the second car, and it screeches, swerving as the third runs into the back of it right as Bucky’s grenade pings off the side. The second grenade rolls under the engine. It goes up in a double blast as the truck-line swerves out behind the commando truck. Jones pelts it with more bullets. Steve yanks a second Browning M1919A4 out of a crate, loads it with a click, and showers them with it too; his shield wedged into the space in front of them. He and Jones fire either side of the rounded edges. Bullets tear through the side of the green canvas and the others drop to the truck bed as Hydra opens fire back, and Bucky tackles him when the fifth swings out; level with the open flap of the truck. Jones has already thrown himself down, but Bucky throws Steve down for him.

“Do you have a death wish!” He hisses, then pulls the pin on a grenade and presses it into Steve’s hand for him to throw over their heads. He tosses it - and -_ ow, crash, ow fuck! My head_ , _my ribs _\- he and Bucky grunt as one, slamming into the wall of the low truck bed with a screech of tyres and a loud crash. Vaguely Steve’s grenade goes off somewhere on the road. The Hydra truck at their side rams into them again, and Steve cracks his head again; pain vibrating over in his skull and along his already tender scuffed face. He very narrowly stops a crate from falling on top of he and Bucky, who’s half trapped under him, stopping it with a flash movement of one bent leg.

Dugan grunts in sharp pain, also having been thrown, but he also has just had Steve’s borrowed motorbike fall on top of him. A third ram and the truck presses into theirs; running them off the road with the momentum. Leaves start smacking into the canvas and the branches start tearing at it, the truck tips as it skirts the edge of the road.

Morita yells out a long “_Ahhhhh!_” of frustration, steering wheel turned and body twisted as he tries to keep it on the road. The rest of the Hydra barrage speed past, disappearing down the road towards the _Jihlava_ junction.

They’re going to go off road -_ they’re going to crash._

“Steve, legs!” Bucky yells, and without thinking Steve rolls and grabs Bucky by the shins and knees, clenching tighter when his fingers slip on the grease still on Bucky’s trousers. It’s the right thing to do; Bucky swings himself out with his rifle round the back and side of the truck bed.

He fires twice, popping _cracks_, and there’s a long jarring screech. He knows Bucky just hit both the drivers before the crush of metal is suddenly gone - the truck careens away and crashes into a tree on the other side of the road. Dernier is suddenly above them and chucks a grenade. It rolls under the already smoking vehicle, and when it explodes it explodes orange-blue - leaving black-blue residue coating the road in a crater.

“Well that thing was definitely loaded with something Hydra-ish.” Jones says faintly.

There’s a smoking cloud from the first pileup way back, and further than that, all twelve trucks and barges well on their way in the distance.

“They’re getting away.” Falsworth says, groaning; a sliver of blood snaking down his head from cracking it on the corner of a crate on the first ram.

Steve shakes his head. “We don’t have time to go back for them.”

“They’re carrying equipment, research, intel - they’re probably emptying the place out as we speak.”

“I know but… the base itself is the priority - it needs to be taken out of commission.”

Philips had said he’d have to make sacrifices in command, and it looks like his first sacrifice is going to be potential intel and equipment recovery. At least the sacrifice isn’t one of his men; he’s not happy about it but he’ll live with the sacrifices he’s got, _thank you very much._

“Man!” Morita shouts from the front as Steve helps lever Bucky back in, slapping a hand on the steering wheel in frustrated exhilaration. “That was a close one!”

Steve breathes in to calm himself further, and pats Bucky on the junction between neck and shoulder. “Not that you need to but I’m pretty sure you just redeemed yourself there. Nice shots.”

“I always shoot nice.” He replies, wiping his hands on his jacket.

“A little help here would be appreciated!” Dugan grunts under the heavy body of his motorbike.

“Oh geez,” Steve swears, “son of a bitch.” He quickly hurries over the couple of feet to free him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Dugan grunts, “sore but…but Christ sake Cap; that tackle and then the bike - are you trying to break my spine?”

Steve huffs out in stress, “Not intentional. Sorry.”

He levers his bike back up.

“Jim!” Bucky calls, back against the side bed of the truck, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to organize everything that came spilling out of their packs, their pockets and the crates on board. “Is the truck still gonna hold up for the trip? Any smoke?”

There’s a moment as Jim seems to check, switching gears, breaking, accelerating and listening to the engine. It’s rocking more than it was and the engines louder than before but it seems okay. “We should be good!”

“The punch it!” Bucky yells, “They’ve got a head start but lets make it as small a head-start as we can!”

“Can’t say no to that!” Jim says and with a burst - sharper air begins to whip through the rips of the green canvas. Steve kicks out the stand on his bike again so it stays upright, about to help everyone put the overspill back so they can--

He stares at the silver metal and brass, the thick tyres, the brown grease on the engine parts below; the handles.

He has his bike. _They know we’re coming, so why not put it to good use?_

.

* * *

_ NEXT TIME ON MAN THE GUNS, THE HOWLERS ARE COMING: _

_All this time Bucky has been worried about how Steve was going to die, and it turns out, after all of that, Bucky was going to strangle him._

_The plan was for Steve to pitch himself at them like a maniac at full speed on the motorbike, oh yes, but after, and only _ ** _**after** _ ** _Bucky snuck through the forest, put on a pair of crampons and climbed up to a ledge to a perch. Also only after Dernier did the same elsewhere at a height with the ingredients for a dummy sniper muzzle._

_He was supposed to give him twenty minutes. At fourteen minutes Bucky hears the rumble of Steve’s bike pegging it down the road, already gone a good distance before his hearing snapped in._

_“You _**_**motherfucker** _ ** _,” He swears, and scrambles up faster._

_At fourteen minutes fifty four seconds the gunfire starts, “No no no no, you reckless shithead; you nutcase, you goddamn lunatic _ **_**shit shit shit. **_**_You are dead. You are so dead.__” _

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Ello 'ello! Here's another action packed, if shorter chapter than the new usual- those boys are on a mission! The next chapter is going to be BUCKY'S POV, and throughout now, as you saw in the last chapter; will include several of Bucky's dreams in italics. As I know one of my readers is adverse to medical horror - for any of the worst dreams in that aspect, I'll pop a couple of ** to signify so they can choose to do what they wish. If it doesn't concern you - just ignore them!  
Let's hope things can calm down a little for a moment or two for our boys to chat in the next few chapters!  
Thanks for sticking with me, as always comments are my life-blood, and please stay safe everyone!  
  
REFERENCES:  
BROWNING M1919A4 - Gabe Jones’ Gun of choice during Howling Commando raids and one of the teams regular heavier power weapons as a high level machine gun. The other weapon he uses is a Thompson most regularly, which is a semiautomatic machine gun also. This reference was taken from the MCU Wikipedia page.
> 
> WINCHESTER SHOTGUN - Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan's gun of choice during the Howling Commando raids. This reference was taken from the MCU Wikipedia page.
> 
> CHAFF - Chaff, originally called Window[1] by the British, and Düppel by the Second World War era German Luftwaffe (from the Berlin suburb where it was first developed), is a radar countermeasure in which aircraft or other targets spread a cloud of small, thin pieces of aluminium, metallized glass fibre or plastic, which either appears as a cluster of primary targets on radar screens or swamps the screen with multiple returns.
> 
> PSALM 55:11 - "Day and night they encircle the walls, while malice and trouble lie within...." - This is what Steve recites in his head when he sees the destruction of the town.


	24. PART 15 (b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I could have predicted you’d pre-empt the plan the way you did too - I guess you haven’t lost as much of you as I thought you had.
> 
> His and Steve’s shoulder radios static and splutter.
> 
> “I know you sorry lot are probably having a whale of a time out there,” Morita’s voice says, “but could I, pray-tell, request some assistance in here - I seem to be surrounded in the control room; and this door will only hold out for so long.”
> 
> “I’d help,” Jones’ voice comes on right away, then breaks off in a splutter of Browning gunfire. “But am currently engaged in a rather nasty feisty-cuffs with an ugly looking Lieutenant and his clique two floors below.”

BUCKY

_ Loucká _ _ , Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, (Czechoslovakia) I  _ _ 50.32776° N, 14.23925° E _

All this time Bucky has been worried about how Steve was going to die, and it turns out, after all of that - Bucky was going to strangle him.

“’_I can draw them out_’ he says, ’_I do make a good target_’ he says. You goddamn shitting _asshole-_-” Bucky mutters at a rant, voice pitched to resemble Steve; hauling himself at speed up the jagged rock, crampons on his feet. “ --you were supposed to wait until I’m on a perch no matter the rush! You motherfucking fucker. You shit bag---you rat invested sucker-ducker---”

Granted, the plan _was _for Steve to pitch himself at them like a maniac at full speed on the motorbike but after, and only _after _Bucky snuck through the forest, put on a pair of crampons and climbed up to a ledge to a perch. Also only after Dernier did the same elsewhere at a height with the ingredients for a dummy sniper muzzle before returning to the main group mid assault.

_“You need covering fire.” Bucky had said when he suggested doing the same as he did in Italy once with Dugan, whose own wide-eyed grimace made his position clear on what he thought about that. Bucky had almost fallen to be fair, but he’s a better climber now. “I can get some crampons from the crate, and shoot up from there. It’s a good plan. You _ ** _ **need** _ ** _ covering fire.” He _ _emphasizes_ _ when Steve starts sharing the same grimace as Dugan. “You are not going to throw yourself at them with no line of defence, you mook.”_

_“It’s true.” Falsworth admitted, agreeing with his point on covering fire. “All of us will.”_

_He’d waved a hand at Falsworth, catching himself on a crate as the truck bounces over a pothole. “_ ** _ **Thank you.** _ ** _” _

_And yet, like Bucky always is, he knew Steve was still only trying to find ways to protect him; disguising it as being objective. I can see right through you, pal. I already screwed up - let me fix it, he’d thought._

_Steve, compromising, said: “If we’re going to do that we should put up a dummy _ _sniper_ _ as well. They'll see the flashes as clear as anything in the dark. Distract them from spotting you seeing as there won’t be cover. You can set up timed muzzles flashes, right?” He asked Dernier next, “on another ledge?”_

_“Oui, oui.”_

_“So we go here and here - that’ll give me a good _ _sight-line_ _ of the road.” Bucky said, pointing out two spots. “Give me time to climb - and then you go Steve.”_

He was supposed to give him twenty minutes. The shitbag is supposed to do a lot of things - but when has he ever done a single thing the way he’s supposed to. Never. Never ever no matter the weather. Bucky should have known better. The utter _shitbag._

At fourteen minutes Bucky hears the rumble of Steve’s bike pegging it down the road, already gone a good distance before his hearing snapped in.

“You _motherfucker_,” He swears, and scrambles up faster.

At fourteen minutes fifty four seconds the gunfire starts, “No no no no, you reckless shithead; you nutcase, you goddamn lunatic _shit shit shit_. You are dead. You are so dead!” He croaks, barely grasping onto the rock with his hands and feet - scrambling up it.

The gunfire’s louder - he’s nearly --- Bucky’s weight drops with a sheer of stone and a sharp yelp; his stomach swoops dangerously with shock; swinging from one hand and one crampon. Rock snaps off with a sheer and it rains sharp pebbles on his head. He squeezes his eyes closed - latching back on - his heart slamming against his ribcage hard enough to break through bone it feels like. He keeps moving - he’s nearly there - he doesn’t have time to see - the engine of the bike veers as Steve must skid - behind Bucky there’s a_ snap-vshoosh_ \- the sound of metal rushing up in the air and down - they’ve fired shells. They’re fired so many shells.

Bucky can’t look - he can’t look.

They whizz through the air. arching behind him; he can hear the moment they drop under the cacophony of gunfire. They hit as a barrage, splattering dirt and trees and fire in a dozen explosions in an area to his right - and Steve - _did the barrage hit Steve?_

He doesn’t let himself stop climbing, he keeps going - _boom boombangbangboom boom boombang boom _and then the thrum of Steve’s engine sounds out again under it. They missed. His fingers claw onto flat rock, a ledge; his right hand, and he scrambles up the rest of the way up; crampons giving him the friction he needs.

He’s going to kill Steve. He’s going to strangle him until his eyeballs pop out. He's going to pop the things out and open like squeezing a zit to death - it’s going to be disgusting - and you can sure as shit be sure he’s going to deserve it.

He’s going to vomit down Steve’s back as payback for the times Steve spewed on him when he was sick, right after he’s blinded him.

He’s going to break his nose until it’s the crookedest nose you ever did see.

He’s going to beat him into smithereens until he’s too stupid in the head to have no choice but to listen.

If the Nazi’s don’t do it - he’s going to burn that motorcycle to a crisp too.

_No_, Bucky thinks, suddenly inspired: _He’s going to cut Steve’s testicles off and make him eat them. That’s what he’s going to do._

“You think you couldn’t breathe before with your asthma, you good for nothing punk, wait until I get my hands on you. Just you wait.”

He slings his preloaded Springfield and customized _x4 __Zeiss _scope off his back, hits the floor on his stomach and snaps the safety off - eye in the scope set at three-fifty yards.

Right, where is that goddamn smuck whose not gonna’ survive ‘till morning when Bucky gets his hands on him?

_Oh there he is_, a mile ahead of where he _should be right now! _Steve smashes through the Hydra checkpoint - shield flying ahead of him, clanging off the chests of the Hydra men attempting to fire at him. It slams off two, then the watch box, and returns to Steve right as he veers the handlebars up and leaps above the crossbeam. He causally tosses a grenade behind him on landing.

_Oh, you - _Bucky’s so angry he can’t even think of any more insults. _The testicles will have to do. _The punk has the gall to ignore the timings and now he’s _showing off _knowing Bucky can probably see him. This is just like Steve - why is Bucky even surprised?

He’s steaming down the road at 100mph, braking and twisting to try and take out the Hydra trucks pegging it out of there on the other side of the road like the others they saw. Hydra goons in those and other attack trucks are firing at him; Hydra foot troops are firing at him; the _Hydra base_ is firing at him and up ahead on the connecting roads; there’s about a dozen men on bikes and all terrain quads on route to meet him. They’re coming from two roads, on both sides to trap him--

_They’re not going to make it to the junction, _Bucky decides.

Steve veers left and right, avoiding machine gun fire - and Bucky shoots the men - one by one off their bikes. Just like the trucks the drivers turn to slack bodies and the vehicles skid randomly down the road; and when one goes down; often enough someone else crashes into the fallen.

_Captain America, the star spangled shitbag of the country_ levers one leg onto the seat, and he stands, leaning left - the motorbike careens that way and he smashes his shoulder into the drivers side of the truck. He swings back down onto the seat and to the right. The truck flies off the road on two wheels and crashes into a tree on it's side. Bucky swings the muzzle back to _Captain motherfucker America_, following him, then picks off a few more in his way - who jolt and drop to the ground - reload - Hydra shout out in soundless voices, confused at where the shots came from. He leaves them then seeing as Steve has that potbelly lot in hand - moves his focus to the gates and the base. There’s two mounted defensive machine guns; energy powered and two regular behind the electrical fence. Bucky shoots the operators, and they scramble with replacements, dragging the bleeding men out of the seats; and Bucky shoots them too._ Reload._ Steve’s had to stop veering left to right to avoid the bullet bursts and his shield takes the brunt of a blue hand-held energy beam that’s fired off - mounted on the front of the bike. He can’t hear the humming build from here but he sees it as the enemy tanks start powering up - so he goes for all the Hydra men running for the tank - shooting or clipping them before they can get down the hatch. He breaks off quickly to reload, and spot himself alone to make sure no one has spotted his perch. He can’t hide his muzzle flashes, he has no T23 flash hider and shooting at night is normally unheard of. The men are firing in the opposite direction to him, in two places it looks like. They’re firing at the flashes of light on the other cliff - trying to kill the dummy snipers in the dark - where Dernier’s outdone himself and set up two, maybe even three instead of the planned one.

He moves his eye to back behind the electrical fence, shooting through the holes - reloading - until he spots the shell canons - men reload and fire as one - a barrage of shells. Bucky shoots one operator, misses another - but gets him the moment before he can point out the flash to his friends._ Reload, reload, reload._ There’s not much else he can do from here - they soar up into the air - an unseen arch - glinting in the moon and the occasional swinging floodlight.

Steve revs, swings right and speeds up - nearly there - the shells explode behind him spitting mud and concrete - more shells still falling. Bucky hisses, eyes off his scope as one comes down right at Steve’s approaching position - it connects.

Steve slams his shield into it an at swing and rockets it away into another truck. It explodes blue and orange as it combines with the contents. Steve's bike skids, though Bucky can't hear it - he can see it - from the shock of the close explosion - and Steve levers control back with both hands sharply. It tales several beats. Then he's ready again right as the next big blue energy gun fires. He sends another beam into a tree with the same move, and it cracks at the trunk and in an almost slow-motion moment, groans. Then it slams into the road, blocking off all vehicles from using it to escape.

_Nice one Steve!_ Bucky thinks, blood pumping in victory, especially seeing as one of the people he just missed was the driver of one of the trucks attempting to flee around Steve.

Hydra shut their gates to stop him - fire fire, reload, fire fire - the shelling begin to collect under Bucky position - and Steve heaves his weight forward then yanks back. The bike soars through the air at the jump, and at it’s peak; Steve jumps off higher and somersaults over the twelve foot fence. He lands on his feet, rolls and then his shield is _everywhere._

Bucky reloads, fires fires, shooting men and trying to shoot at the triggered mechanisms of equipment.

His watch glows a little the with radium accents - 21:23 when he glances at it. He switches his focus to the left. Their stolen truck - loaded at it’s heaviest weight; stone on the accelerator; brake line cut - smashes into the electrified fence on the East side - it tears through the thin wire, sparking, and crashes into the side of a tank - slamming to a stop. There’s wiring tangled around the wheels, electric current running through the metal - Hydra soldiers run at it, ready to fire at the ‘driver’ inside. They converge - Dernier’s pre-triggered detonator explodes - blowing the truck, then men, and then the energy-tank, up. It fires out in the usual shock-wave - taking anything out in the vicinity. It tears a huge hole open in the fence.

The commandos converge into the hole - and Bucky covers each and every one of them, bar Dernier who’s still missing. When he takes his eyes away from the scope to see Steve in the distance, at two-fifty yards, smashing through men; shield in one hand, borrowed _Browning __M1919A4_in the other.

The boys split for different agendas while he picks off any who get too close. He squints, looking through the _x4 _scope over the roof to the other side of the compound - _is that - another exit and road? Their recon showed that road and gate were disused, blocked off; non functioning. _There’s more cargo trucks, heavy loaders and troop trucks; loaded with equipment instead of men, who instead have all been sent out to combat the two breaches in defence. _They knew we were coming and were prepared - but not enough. __They underestimated us - but not enough to cover their asses - they’re escaping with _**_everything_.**

Bucky sees, just briefly, just vaguely, more tapered edges than anything at this range before the truck canvas swings closed - the shapes of materials, weapons (glowing and not) and crates - packed in tightly with indistinct wedges of unmuscled men and women - scientists? - cramming themselves in with their work while common men give their lives for the cause.

“Shit shit.” Bucky swears, and breaks from the lot on this side to try and fire at them over the roof - he has to try and stop them. Huge change in angle, change in distance - an extra four, five hundred yards? He readjusts his cross-hairs to accommodate. The others don’t know, he can’t signal from here; not without setting off a flare - and that’ll give away his position if he hasn’t already; his shortwave-radio’s out of range. He can barely even see outside of the lights from the base.

_Target height 1.7 __meters x__ \- what? 800m? distance divided by what appears to be 2 __mil-dots__ high in the __reticule__. Angle __compensation__, downward at 45 __degrees__ -_ he checks the cosine chart taped to the side of the rifle; has to squint, it’s too dark up here to see properly - he thinks the cosine value is 0.70 something something - looks like he’s guessing on that one._ Wind speed three to four mph, South-East x the speed and distance again = wind-drift = 32.0”. Oh wait fuck, is he gonna have to account for earth curvature this far? Too bad no time - fire._ Fire, reload, bolt action, fire fire. Sweep the shellings out the way. Reload, fire.

He’s wrong, it’s more like eight-fifty yards, there’s wind gusts down there he can’t feel from up here, and there’s too much blocking it; he only has a small window; physically, as well as time-span. His first shot goes wide - hits the right chimney he’s trying to fire between, the second goes wide again; but spears though the space this time at least. He accounts for it; but trying to hit the scientists inside is pointless - and the men loading the trucks are moving too quickly to account for at this distance if he wants to target quantity; let alone quality of shots. The trucks are disappearing in the distance. They’re too far gone - he has to stop the trucks he can certifiably reach before they set off. He starts firing at the back tyres - right, then left. Reload, bolt action, and gets a stupid scientist who gets out to shout at someone for the sake of it by accident. The right tyre of one deflates quickly on the second round, good shots, _okay, better_ \- but the rest then realize. The engines start - spitting into view, some with one popped tyre; and away they go anyway before Bucky can reload and hit them. There’s too many trucks - already loaded or being loaded out of sight - he can’t fire through god-knows how many brick walls; through an entire goddamn building to hit them when he can’t see where - and - he can’t get them at all. _Should he move higher? How the hell hasn’t anyone spotted the muzzle flashes by now?_

A huge explosion rocks this side of the building; the sound and smoke break his focus - and he’s back on this side. He quickly searches out the howlers and Steve to see if they need back up - he can only spot Dugan and Falsworth - though they seem to be doing okay; sporting stolen Hydra guns. The others must have managed to breach the building. He spies for Steve quickly, looking for dark red, blue and white - looking for a springing shield - that’s the easiest identifier. He can’t see the glint of the flying shield anywhere. _Where is he? Has he gone inside before clearing out his area - he should be out here-- HE SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT THE OUTSIDE--he hasn’t. _

Bucky spots him, shield and self in the shadow of a smoking tank he’s blown apart from the inside. He’s stopped; _why has he stopped? _He’s looking from side to side and around - _looking for-_-? He’s looking for Bucky’s shots - has learnt the distinct sound of Bucky’s rifle he told him a few weeks ago; can distinguish it from the others. He’s realized the bullets are firing out but no one on these two edges of the compound are going down from unseen shots.

Bucky’s eyes widen. Steve ducks down further - makes sure no one can see him so he doesn’t give away his snipers position; and looks at Bucky’s perch. Bucky shoves his focus back up - makes it deliberately obvious he’s firing over the roof between the chimneys. He reloads, fires without looking - there’s not much he can hit - fires, reloads - instead looking at Steve’s crouched figure squinting in the distance. He’s going to run out of special flat-edged spritzer bullets soon if he’s not careful.

_Come on, come on you genius,_ he thinks, firing as frantically as he can manage - not pausing to aim as he normally would to get the message across. _Make the connection. _Bucky can’t quite see in the dark this far and with Steve in shadow as he is, but he seems to be frowning when Bucky swivels his scope back to him - and a glance of light hits Steve’s eyebrows as they raise up - suddenly he’s moving - shouting - pegging it round the corner and fighting his way to the other side. _Yes Steve yes! Stop them! Stop the ones I can’t get!_

He moves back to eight-hundred and fifty meters, firing at men and tyres when he can get them, calculations haywire in his head. He switches to make sure the boys are covered, reload, once, twice - now not on his best bullets; on the ones that don’t quite fire out as straight as his tailored ones, reloads again.

A human-wedge runs to jump into view from the back of a moving off truck - verging into vision. Bucky shoots twice; misses the tyres both times - _dammit_ \- hits the dirt twice - but catches the scientist in the thigh. He goes down, mouth open in a yell, drowned out from Bucky’s own gunfire and everything else happening in the cacophony on this side. Steve’s shield rockets from nowhere and clangs into the bridge of the wheel; tearing through the alloy centre. The truck stops dead in it’s tracks - Bucky fires at the other tyre. Right as Bucky’s bullet pops open the tyre in a lucky shot Steve reaches the area. Surely seeing or hearing the sudden hiss of air Steve realizes he can yank out the shield without the truck making it for the hills. He has it in hand and barrels full-force into the fray out of Bucky’s view.

With a pop and a flash - everything goes dark.

Bucky jerks back, eyes stinging at the change - the only light is the fires burning beyond the fence - then he realizes. Morita’s just cut the power lines, all of them it seems; Hydra just lost all their electricity; just as they planned.

There’s no floodlights, no light from windows - only flame and muzzle flashes in the dark. The dummy sniper muzzle, or muzzles; as Dernier decided to outdo himself for Bucky’s protection on the other cliff is so much more obvious now - which means his will be too. He vaguely see’s Dernier firing and cutting through the de-powered fence with cutters, torch and gun; having climbed down and now able to breach from that side too. 

He squints, trying to see over the roof and on this side but; everything is too dim; too dull - there’s a reason sniping operations only happen in the light of day. He can see a little, and hear _a lot_ \- and he could keep firing he supposes - but it’ll be a waste of him and a waste of bullets when he could be down there. Finishing up on this side, in a flare of light it looks as though Falsworth leaves Dugan to it, following Steve’s must have been last shouted orders, and starts running the perimeter to help cover the fleeing side.

_It’s a smart play of Hydra’s,_ Bucky’ll give them that as he slings his rifle back onto his back and unloops the rope around his waist. He quickly finds a secure and deep crevice of rock, ties it on; then knots the knots Jackson made them learn by feeling not sight - so they could do it in the dark - around himself, tugs; then drops off the edge - abseiling down in quick bounces.

_They might be _ _magnanimous_ c_ocksuckers Bucky wants to wipe off the face of the earth until there’s nothing left but ashes and stupid spectacles but - they’re way too smart and savvy for their own good._

They knew the same group that’s targeted and blown through their bases in France, Belgium and now one in Czechoslovakia in the space of a month are coming - they know a super solider is with them - so they reinforce their gates to try and kill them off the bat and evacuate their greatest (or all) assets as a contingency. With what Johann Schmidt did to the base in Austria on a whim just to kill Steve, setting off the self destruct, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if they’re willing to do the same here. With all their assets out it now paves the way for them to try and blow up the compound with the commandos inside if things take a turn for the worse - without sacrificing all their ‘hard-earned work’ in the same breadth. The boys have prepared for that though - most of the built for purpose bases seemingly have self-destruct detonators and the howlers first port of call was to secure the control room. With how efficiently and spectacularly Morita was able to cut the power in one swoop Bucky has no doubt he has it well in hand.

Suddenly back in range - the radio on his shoulder splutters to life, spiting out static and Steve’s voice, followed by Gabe’s somewhere inside the building. Apparently they’ve gutted as well as emptied the interior - trashing and burning the intel.

His feet hit level ground, and he cuts himself loose - tears off the crampons to come back for later - unholsters his side arm and runs right and forwards; aiming for the truck sized hole in the fence to save him cutting his own way through somewhere else. He empties his clip into a reinforcement of internal goons; in black and wearing those stupid awful goggled masks that are pinning Dugan down. With the break the man is able to fire a Hydra energy canon at them - again again again - and they’re gone. More come from inside to attack. They’ve clearly depleted the exterior ground force to warrant it but Dernier has them from the other side with his own cannon. Bucky reloads with another clip, ducking back out from cover.

Dugan yells, “We got this, go!”

That gives Bucky the leave he needs to sprint the perimeter to the other fleeing side - knowing he’s not leaving them in a pinch.

“Watch out!” Steve’s voice yells from somewhere. Without thinking Bucky ducks - the shield spirals above his head; hits something behind him. He turns to see two internal guards on the ground - one with a gun beside him as if it was raised up - one with garrotte wire. Bucky’s so thankful for that save he doesn’t even yell at Steve for giving him less that two seconds warning before nearly taking his head off.

An arm swings into his - _oh, hello sucker ducker_ \- like Bucky’s a dame and Steve’s walking him home - and swings him round; Steve firing his sidearm down the column off the side building and fence - and then they’re both undercover.

“Get down!” Steve orders, ducking himself so Bucky does the same. Falsworth sets off an explosion to take out the garages; stone exploding out and slamming into the ground, other buildings and the open gate onto the escape road - crumpling and bending the metal until its blocked. Bucky stumbles onto his knees, hand out to catch himself from the force.

“We’re clear!” Falsworth announces at a shout over their short range radios.

“How many got away before I noticed?” Steve asks him as they breach cover again and start firing side by side. He covers Steve as he runs for his shield left by the pair of men who tried to garrotte Bucky.

“Too many.” He answers, “they were loading them where the building blocked my view - I could only get so many - and even then that didn’t make much of a difference. You?”

“Not enough.” Steve says, “what a shit show, huh?” He adds after, but it’s with a bit of a laugh and much less of the tone of hopeless disaster as earlier. He seems to have accepted _you win some, you loose some._

“That’s a brighter outlook than you had earlier.” He notes out-loud anyway, kicking one in the knee socket to drop him so Steve can clang his shield against his skull. Considering how he hits the wall that one is probably dead. There’s much less _distract, decoy and ‘retrieval_’ on this assault than the last; in more ways than one. There’s a lot less carefulness about Steve’s fighting with the mad rush here as well.

“Like you said - I already feel bad about enough stuff.” Steve yells over the noise, the entire exterior is nearly clear - the surviving goons are either fighting or fleeing into the trees. Bucky can’t be bothered to chase them down. They’re clearly not Steve’s priority either. “No point adding more on - and I figured you can’t get a gold star every time. You win some, you lose some.”

Bucky laughs,_ you win some, you lose some, huh? Maybe I really do still know you if I can predict that. _

_If I could have predicted you’d pre-empt the plan the way you did too - I guess you haven’t lost as much of you as I thought you had._

His and Steve’s shoulder radios static and splutter.

“I know you sorry lot are probably having a whale of a time out there,” Morita’s voice says, “but could I _pray-tell _request some assistance in here - I seem to be surrounded in the control room; and this door will only hold out for so long.”

“I’d help,” Jones’ voice comes on right away, then breaks off in a splutter of Browning gunfire. “But am currently engaged in a rather nasty feisty-cuffs with an ugly looking Lieutenant and his clique two floors below.”

“On our way, Jim.” Steve assures - Dugan right behind him on the line - and _together_; they storm the interior.

. . .

** HERR. I POKORNY** _: _MELDEN SIE ALLEN BASEN - WIR SIND UNTER BESCHUSS. "DER AMERIKANER" WIRD IDENTIFIZIERT. TAKTISCHER RÜCKZUG IST GEWÄHRLEISTET - <strike>WEITERE FOLGEN. </strike>

**HYDRA** **COMMAND**: Berechtigung für Selbstzerstörung erteilt. Opfere Fundamente, um die Zerstörung des "Amerikaners" zu gewährleisten 

**_HERR. I POKORNY_**: ORDERS ASSURED, Oberführer. DER AMERIKANER WIRD HEUTE ABEND STERBEN 

TRANSLATION: 

(_**HERR. I POKORNY** : REPORT TO ALL BASES - WE ARE UNDER ATTACK. '"DER AMERIKANER" IS IDENTIFIED. TACTICAL RETREAT IS ENSURED - <strike>MORE TO FOLLOW.</strike>) _

_( **HYDRA COMMAND**: Permission Granted for Self-destruct. Sacrifice foundations to ensure "The American's" destruction.) _

_ (**HERR. I POKORNY**: ORDERS ASSURED, Oberführer. THE AMERICAN WILL DIE TONIGHT.) _

. . .

** HERR. I POKORNY**: SELBSTZERSTÖRUNG GESCHEITERT - "DER AMERIKANER-----" [signal lost] 

_( _Translation:_** HERR. I POKORNY**: SELF DESTRUCT FAILED. "THE AMERICAN------" )_ [signal lost]

. . .

In pairs, after, they do a immediate preliminary sweep of all the floors, battery torches attached to a clasp on their shoulders providing the only light in the windowless corridors. When Morita cut the power he cut _all _the power; including the flashing emergency lights; much to their consternation.

"Go hard or go home," is the response they get which is altogether rather expected. It's become a familiar motto of Morita excuses.

The miraculous _lights out_ moment was the final straw for the rather deadly Hydra Elite who was halfway through a dispatch apparently, giving Morita one hell of a run for his money by breaching back into his own control room with utter enragement when his signal dropped out in their radio room on a different floor. The last dispatch ended with Captain America's name on his lips apparently, and a relay of failure to command - half an hour after ending his previous with "THE AMERICAN WILL DIE TONIGHT." 

Steve, rather smugly, had said. "I feel rather popular."

Bucky had grumbled, "I'll show you goddamn popular" with such venom as his adrenaline cooled that Steve's been giving him a wary semi-wide birth since. The look on his face says he knows exactly, explicitly, precisely _why_. Did Bucky mention he was a sucker-ducker? An absolute toss-pot? He needs an anatomy book to make sure it's as painful as _popularityly_ possible when he starts to carve up Steve's testicles, even more so when he shoves them down his throat.

"Looking pretty wrathful there, Sarge." One of them comments.

"Oh _really_? What. A. Shocker." Steve subtly slides his way out of the room to safety. "Yeah you better run." He says to someone's chortle as Dernier, whose the only one worth anything of the lot, pats him on the shoulder in concordance. 

"I know. I know," he says, because surely he noticed the time switch.

"He had one fucking job. One." Bucky rants.

"Technically his one job was to clear this base---"

"---I _will_ come for you too Jones, _don't think I fucking won't!_"

"Run man," Morita says, stepping over the body of Hydra-Elite-man who cracked him good in the head with the dispatch microphone before he went down for good, making a quick exit himself. "Run while you still can, the Strife is out and the Trouble is running."

"I'm not running!" Steve's voice calls innocently from somewhere now unseen. "And I'm not trouble."

"Yeah you are!"

"I will actually kill all of you." He half-snaps not seriously. He very much wants to punch or wall, or better yet, one of the dearly departed - but it's not nice to punch corpses. "One job." He laments again with a finger held up. "_One._"

Dernier pats him on the shoulder again. "I know, I know."

Bucky finishes his round with Falsworth, mainly because he is the one Bucky is least likely to kick up the ass at the moment due to his spectacular work with the gate explosion. They all step over the occasional body or two, but so far bar one man their patrol has been clear. The scientist Bucky shot in the leg when he came across him outside isn’t still alive; it turns out Bucky clipped the femoral artery and the guy bled out. There had been a suggestion as soon as Morita was clear and free from the control room and Gabe backed up; that Bucky go to the roof and pick off any who tried to run and disappear into the dark forest but Steve had said; _“No point, there’s not that many left that haven’t already gone.”_

_“Plus, I can’t see in the dark, pal.” Bucky adds helpfully._

_“That too. I’d rather just clear it and secure the building in case they have any last minute tricks up their sleeves. It’s a huge compound; and was heavily manned if not heavily armed aside from the gates on each side” - because they ran with everything else - “so it’ll take a while.”_

"You still going to kill him?" Falsworth asks on their route back to the central building.

Bucky shakes his hand, so-so, as a _debateable_. "I won't do it in front of you lot out of respect. Don't worry. I'll bludgeon him in private."

Falsworth chortles, which makes Bucky suspect he was the owner of the last one too. "Maybe save it for tomorrow, when were hale and clear?" Bucky grunts, and Falsworth's lips quirk even if he's not looking at him as they walk. "Do it for me?"

"Don't know if I care about you that much."

"Well, I'm hoping that's a lie with how full of bosh you usually are, but I can never tell." Falsworth returns, lips still quirked - a carinatum flies and twists it's way past the windows with a few flaps of it's wings. The sky is grey, but still dark; the stars are out but faded with the hover-rance of the recent fires, so he can't see any distinct enough to identify them. He looks at the moon instead which is easy - a quarter moon. It was a quarter moon when they landed in France too. "Because I rather like you, myself."

He nudges Bucky in the elbow, who withholds his own (unexpectedly pleased) smirk and calls him a _kiss ass_.

“Well gents,” Falsworth says when they reconvene in the control room, “seven soldiers against close to a hundred - I’d say that’s a record, don’t you?”

“Calm your tits, your highness.” Gabe says, “we don’t want that head of yours getting any bigger.”

“For a shit show - that did go better than I thought it would.” Dugan admits, “We ain’t dead, so I’m counting it as a win.”

“I’d say that’s fair.” Steve says. “You were great out there, all of you.”

“Weren’t too shabby yourself, Cap.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.” Dugan says, smacking Steve lightly on the arm.

“I’m the commanding officer,” Steve replies mildly, “so automatically get the stronger compliment - and you lot were great.”

Bucky snorts, mocking, flicking buttons on the useless camera controls. “Did you lot hear that -_ the commanding officer_,” he says in a high pitched imitation of Steve, “and_ I’m always __automatically__ better than the lot of you.”_

“Oh shut up.” Steve says, but he’s grinning and not telling Bucky off for disrespecting him in front of the boys this time considering they’re all laughing with him. He’s still red-faced from the blast several hours earlier, painting his face like an uncomfortable sunburn, with a small cut on his brow and side, but he's still thrumming with energy and adrenaline-flushed relief. There’s a bandage peeking out through the hole in his uniform on his right shoulder from the nasty bullet graze - Bucky's sure he's going to checking how it heals whenever and however many times as he can get away with. “I’m saying - props to you all. Will you just take it - even if it makes Monty's head bigger.”

“Who’s head? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my own importance,” Falsworth says, heading out the room to begin the next sweep; now for any lucky break in left over intel.

Steve laughs, “Alright alright. Dernier and Jim, you wanna’ head outside on watch and the outlying building, everyone else floor by floor - Jones how’s your arm?”

“Good enough to finish up the search - I’m not bleeding through yet.”

“Okay, we’ll get it looked at again when we can.” Steve says, giving him a look to show it _will _be seen to. "Morita?" He checks as well - whose donning a haphazardly slapped-on plaster over the cut on his head. Who knew microphones could be so sharp. Morita nods a, _good as gold_. Steve follows his motion then checks his watch, “It’s ten to one, and this will probably take a while - lets try to get out of here at dawn if we can.”

. . .

_(“The American” is in 230012323 11011 and allying _ _temporary_ _ placement territory - Base destroyed - most _ _assets_ _ recovered. Expect part Shipment - assist DR. BOGDANOVIĆ on arrival. “American” location unknown.)_

_(SENDER: HERR. I POKORNY RECIPICENT: LT. R ZORIC)_

_. . ._

Most of the rooms are gutted, so they don’t have a lot of luck - torn apart or empty or smashed or smoldering. There’s cabinets turned over, makeshift ashy fire-pits and remnants of things torn apart if they couldn’t be moved. It’s clear, unlike the last base, that this wasn’t just used for records and weapons development - something more sinister went on here. In the basement floor; below the ground there’s cell blocks - and in one room the ground floor looks down on them through barred gaps in the floor. All twelve of the prisoners are new-ish corpses; sporting bullet holes shot from above - they seem to be civilians with no identification, and when they discover the entrance to the lower floor Steve makes a point of carrying them above ground and out of the Hydra boundary to free land - and digs a single grave for them; time allowing, while the rest continue floor by floor. He finishes before the rest of them have finished on the last three floors; the ground already turned up and easy to shovel. He’s tucking away a makeshift rosary into a pocket when he returns.

In a room deep in the base, bolted to the floor, there’s what looks like metal furniture legs sawed off where they couldn’t be moved, a foot or two foot up - and when Bucky measures it by sight; it’s the size of a rectangular table - seven foot across. There’s smashed glass elsewhere in the room - maybe they’re test tubes, or maybe just broken drinking glasses - there’s no way to know. Otherwise it’s unidentifiable - another room isn’t - but Steve comes out of that one looking queasy with Gabe and closes the door after them; staying it’s clear. Bucky spies glass jars on shelves; sludgy and solid red things contained within; floating in yellowed fluid before the door clicks. Steve closes the door blind for good measure. Gabe has their small field camera out; so whatever it was had to be photographed - probably documentation of war crimes.

He walks into one of the last rooms on this floor and his nose scrunches - can smell frazzled electricity; like a layer of ozone hovering in the air. He stops inside. He starts twitching so much he has to put his gun away lest he looses control of his trigger finger.

“Buck, let’s go.” Steve calls from the hallway as he crosses the doorway. “There’s nothing here. Not that’s left. Let’s finish torching the lot.”

“Yeah,” Dugan says, “time get the hell out of dodge.”

He shakes his head sharply, wanting to leave but…_what whatwhat?_

“Barnes?” Falsworth, the partner of his pair, asks warily - watching his arm twitch like he’s short circuited. He comes right to his side, lays one soothing hand on Bucky’s forearm. He twitches away, jerking. Falsworth keeps the contact. “Okay mate,” he says in a low voice, “lets just walk out, yeah?”

He shakes his head sharply again and tilts his head, makes his _eyes_ and not his landmine of a brain look at this room stinking of static.

“Can you not feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“The…” he can’t find the words, “the electricity.”

“The powers cut Bucky.” Falsworth says, and he doesn’t normally call Bucky by this first name - normally _Barnes _or _Sarge;_ sometimes _trouble and strife_; sometimes a _bloody moron_. That’s how he knows he’s freaking the guy out. “There’s no power---”

“But there was…can’t you…”

“Boys, come on.” Steve says, reentering the room. He stops in the doorway, Gabe and Dugan behind him. “Jim and Jacques have already set the charges on their side, they’re waiting - lets go.”

Bucky stays where he is, hair raised and on edge, eyes roaming as the three of them look from side to side at their stationary figures. The back of his neck tingles, the bottom lid on his left eye twitching so much it's making his vision blur.

“What’s the problem?” Gabe asks.

Falsworth eyes him and sighs. “Captain - your senses are better than a dog on steroids - can you feel anything…” he shrugs, hands up like he knows he sounds crazy. Maybe Bucky is, but he knows what he feels. “…electrical.”

“Electrical.” Steve repeats dully.

Maybe it’s a memory and that’s why he can sense it when Steve, whose looking over at them in bewilderment, apparently can’t. It’s like the sheets with random numbers - it’s familiar. Bucky starts forward sharply.

“Barnes---”

“There’s something here.” He stresses, shoving the desk to the side and crouching down to a lower level - there’s electrical circuiting built into the concrete wall, it runs along and up the wall to the ceiling, splitting off into different areas. They’re everywhere - and it’s dark aside from the torches and the dull sunlight from the window - leading to hanging and standing lamps, a shelf of something metal or to nothing - wires bare from being cut. The threads are all over the ground.

Like he can read Bucky’s thoughts Steve says: “They all would have been live when we cut the power - probably sparking - it’s probably that.” _Whatever it is your __thinking_, goes unsaid.

“No it’s…it’s not - it’s something else.” Bucky tries and fails to explain, hand on one of the thick conductors melded into the wall, because he can_ smell_ and _feel_ the static. It’s electrical but not. “Can’t you smell it at least?” He asks when Steve crouches down next to him. He trails his fingers between the indent of the two wires, and twitches in his whole body, even though like they said the power’s dead. It’s like he can feel the current running up and down his skin. His hand twitches again.

“I can smell burnt toast.” Steve admits, watching him carefully. “A little. But - that’s not exactly a big thing considering we normally smell bodies. Or remnants of that plasma. Buck._ What is going on_?”

He follows the path in the wiring he thought he saw again, stands and turns to the right wall as Steve says, half and order half a plea. “Bucky talk to me --what---”

He catches his fingers on the edge of a bookcase filled with a hundred editions of the same journal by Julius Friedrich Lehman, followed by medical texts and a few copies of Hitler’s Mein Kamp. Gabe picks up a few medical textbooks; three of the body; _Grants Atlas of Anatomy, The Conquest of Pain_ and _Blood Disorders_, one of the mind; citing _Psychiatric Treatments for the Feeble-minded_, after they fall to the ground. They’re the heavier volumes of the collection. The bookcase’s height only reaches to his shoulder - the rest of the wall is taken up by a Hydra flag, black on red, hanging over the wall and behind the bookcase as decoration. The burnt toast smell - if that’s what it smells like to Steve - is stronger.

“Jesus, Barnes what are you--”

“There’s wires running behind the bookcase.” Steve realizes sharply as he sees what Bucky has, starting forward like a shot and pulling the rest of the bookcase away from the wall before Bucky has a chance to properly pretend to temper his strength. Steve does it for him and stands at it’s centre - the wires disappear into the wall and the flag drapes down to the floor; hovering an inch or so off the ground. The skirting board along the floor stops around a half metre gap - and Steve sweeps the flag away to expose a door.

He turns the knob, rattles it, then shoulders it open without hesitation.

“Rodgers wait--” Falsworth starts behind Bucky as he breaks the lock, but Steve’s already in.

Static sizzles up his nostrils like a burn, and it's like a cloud of invisible smoke hits him in the face. It’s _stinking._ Nothing clicks or blows up or anything - and the boys follow Steve in; but Bucky stands just off the doorway - blinking water out of his eyes. It’s suddenly like he’s cutting onions for the monthly family soup. The sound of the room whites out in a wash; not like he’s underwater - more like like he’s too high up in the sky, a whistle building. The boys talk - are having a whole conversation; their lips move and Bucky follows the movements but with no hearing. Can they really not -- _are the not bothered by this…? _

He steps into the room after a moment and takes it in - where a huge output of power must have been thrown out - maybe once, maybe a hundred times. The room's rather bare like all the others, turned over furniture - burnt piles of documents in a corner - the floor blackened with ashes and a bunch more cut wires. There’s a technician’s legs sticking out from around a desk, who must have locked himself in, along with a pile of spilled white pills on the floor.

“Frothed at the mouth,” Steve’s lips say in a silent observation, bending down to look. “cyanide.”

Bucky blearily pulls his eyes away to the other side. There’s a metal table and a chair near the corner as Bucky follows the wire. The table and chair are bolted to the floor - the only reason they’re the only things still upright, and handcuffs have been forgotten; hanging off the arms of the chair. There’s blood crusted on the inside circles of them - and the faint smell of urine spells in under the static.

In the silent whistle he looks at Steve’s face - he’s talking again, properly, orders and not off hand comments - but Bucky hones in on the furrowed scrunch of his brow. His nose twitches a little; he can now clearly pick up of the smell or feel the static burning at the hair inside. He looks uncomfortable. It’s not in a way that he smells something bad or something that hurts; more uncomfortable in a way that whatever he is feeling might be semi-familiar. _Please let me be reading into this too much, _Bucky thinks desperately, because this static isn’t from the iron lung or Steve’s equivalent - that was more unbearable waves of heat and clanging pans as everything within him boiled and bubbled. _This shouldn’t be __familiar__ to Steve._

What happens next is hard to explain.

It is this: his sight fragments away from Steve’s face back to the perfectly ordinary chair. Steve and the boys are on the other side of the room, searching the desk and filing cabinets for intel like they’ve spent the last hour doing. It’s a pointless hope; this room has been gutted like the rest - but they have to try. It’s like they haven’t seen it - or haven’t realized what it is - the importance of it to the ozone residue coating the entire two rooms like a gas.

Hanging from the ceiling above the chair is a series of seven or eight wires - some thicker - some thinner - all cut at different lengths; insides exposed. Two of the wires haven’t been cut and carry the weight of half a metal shell that's been taken apart. If you mirror it in the middle the shell is big enough to encase a human skull, and mirrored at a diagonal would have one piece that closes around the right jawline and another piece that closes around the left eye and ear. It’s different but the same - the shell of a prototype.

The long whistle turns sharp - a _ssswisnh_ sound builds - powering up and - his left eye sparks out white _oh god oh god_\---Subject #64’s machine---_blinding__ him frying him---ow ow-ah-ah-ah--help him--his brain---his brain---_

_(Do you know what happened here?_

_ What did I show you before?)_

The static in the air comes at him in a flooding attack - through his skin, into his blood; dancing up the base of his spine to his skull to the back of his teeth.

_(What was the picture I showed you before? _

_ What kind of animal was it? _

_ What kind of a gun was it?)_

The boys are still talking around the desk - giving out orders, instructions -_ he can’t hear_ \- Steve’s head a foot above the rest snaps to him as his back thumps into the wall. His eyes dart to where Bucky’s gaze rests - fire back to Bucky who ------he cries out in pain, he can’t take it; hand smacking against his blind eye and thrashing head.

Steve’s eyes flash with something----suddenly---

_(Do you know what happened here? _ _What did I show you before?)_

_ (When, where is he?)_

_ (Mr’s Coulter’s peach pie, a banana, bear bear bear.)_

_ (I don’t know)_

_ (Smiley faces made from peas, what day is he on? When was that? When did it happen?)_

_ (What does Becca look like? Who is Becca? Who is Colette, Isabelle, Courtney? Which one is his sister?)_

_ (What is Debussy? What is Berceuse? What is Clair de…tune? Lune? Pune? The woman at the piano….)_

_ (What was the picture I showed you before?)_

_ (I don’t know.)_

_ (What kind of gun is it?)_

_ (I don't know!)_

_ (Do you know who died here?)_

_ (I DON'T KNOW)_

_(When, where is he?)_

Bucky is outside.

He stumbles, bashing his shoulder into a corner wall he didn’t see until he’s on the ground. “Ah ah ah!” He cries out, driving; digging his fingers into his hair and the skin of his forehead. His head is fizzing with white flashes; pulsing with electricity instead of an uncontrollable storm - this is new - different -- _it hurts._

Someone drops to their knees beside him, hand on his shoulder and back. They’re shouting at him.

“Barnes. Talk to me, mon ami. Que s'est-il passé? Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?” Dernier shouts, trying to tip him up to look at him. “James, dis-moi ce qui ne va pas! (“****What’s happened? What’s wrong? James, tell me what’s wrong!****”)

He hears the name and cries out worse, pressing his pulsing forehead into the wet grass. It’s not raining but it was at the turn of the morning. He digs his fingers into his hair; praying for it to stop._ Don’t piss yourself. Don’t piss yourself._

_(Who died here? _

_ Do you know who died here?)_

_(No.)_

_(NO NO NO I DONT KNOW)_

“Morita find ’e others!” Dernier shouts in barked, rough English. “Something must’ have been triggered - e’ trap or someth-ing! Mon ami, mon ami,” Dernier says, switching back to him, hands running all over his body; grabbing him finally at the back of his neck. “Qu'est-ce que c'est? Ta tête? Tes yeux ? Était-ce un gaz - A um, a gas, is it gas? Quoi-- (****“What is it? Your head? Your eyes? Was it a gas - A um, a gas, is it gas. What--”****)

“_Fuckfuckfuck_ fuck fuck fuck.” Bucky curses out, scrunching one hand into his hair, the other into the wet grass.

_(When did I throw up? _

_ What do I look like? _

_ What did Colette look like?)_

_No_ no no no, _who am I? Subject #63, Barnes Sergeant - no._ If he opens his eyes the walls of the building will be rain splattered - the grass will be green. _It can’t shock you if your skulls not inside it - it can’t shock you. _

“Fuck fuck…fuck.” He gasps out - letting his claw-like hands relax and opening his eyes to the darkness of his curled arms. There’s slithers of water on his cheeks. He’s in Europe but not Krausberg, he’s outside. He’s out.

Dernier presses into his shoulder blade and neck, “Sergeant ce--”

“My tête.” (“****My head****.”) Bucky groans, “I don’t - no gas,” he bites out to reassure him. To spell out the important information. “I don’t know. My head. Ah.”

“It is pain?” Dernier asks in English, and Bucky realizes he switched to his native tongue without realizing. Bucky nods, squeezing his eyes shut again. Almost as an unconscious thought he starts spitting out random words he knows in his mother’s family’s Romanian tongue. None of them make sense together.

Five minutes later more voices from inside the huge compound emerge, and Dernier has him sat up against the wall and drinking water, head cradled in one hand. The safety of Dernier’s gun is off, still not trusting it isn’t a trap; because he has little to no reason to believe it isn’t - but he didn’t want to leave Bucky’s side. They’d searched the buildings already, were simply rigging it to blow so had all turned off their individual radios to save battery - but Morita and Dernier switched theirs on when the former went sprinting back in. Morita’s been on it the moment he found the boys; they’re all fine - half of them looking for him. It’s past dawn; he’s sitting in the sun.

“I’m telling you there was no gas.” Dugan says from somewhere.

Suddenly Steve’s in-front of him on his knees - hands on Bucky’s face. Bucky squints at him as the others emerge out the door Dernier chased him out off; has to quickly shade his left eye from the sun; arm still twitching.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” He fires out, trying to check his eyes; check his everywhere. Bucky tries to wave him off but knows it’s pointless right now. Steve won’t allow it. He closes his eyes to block the light, dropping his head into his hand further. Dernier taps his wrist to remind him to drink. “I don’t--I don’t know.” He tells Steve.

“What do you mean---”

“Hell Sarge! you went flying out of there.”

“I don’t know,” he repeats, “something in that room, it just - I don’t know. It was like I couldn’t see,” he groans as his temples throb again. “Oh fuck, my head.” He takes a drink out of the canteen so he doesn’t have to say anything else.

“Your head?” Steve asks, hands moving from his face to the back of his skull, fingers moving through his hair like he’s looking for a wound. His fingers are grimy but gentle - if hurried - the scar on his forefinger helps ground Bucky further.

“Oui, Captaine.” Dernier says and explains further from what he knows on this side of the last five minutes.

“What the hell set it off?” Dugan says from above, referencing what was obviously an intensely physical reaction to a, as far as they know, a non-physical danger.

“I don’t know.” Bucky bites out, again, voice tight with pain from the still present headache. “Something in the room when you opened the door - it just hit me and I knew I needed to get clear of it. So I ran.”

“When I opened the door?” Steve clarifies, “like the smell?”

“Smell? There was a smell? You said there wasn’t a gas!” Morita exclaims.

“There _wasn’t_.” Gabe replies, “Not that we could smell - only Barnes and the Captain were getting anything but abandoned ass vibes from there.”

“Cap said it smelt like burnt toast.” Dugan informs.

“Burnt toast doesn’t turn your brain into an attack dog Dum Dum--”

“I don’t know.” Bucky says, replying to Steve while the rest of them talk and bicker above him. “About the smell,” he then clarifies, “maybe. But yeah, when you opened the door.”

Steve pushes the canteen towards his mouth again, making him drink. “Did it smell the same to you, or different? Like burnt toast?”

Bucky shakes his head, gulping down the water before returning it to his lap; because no it didn’t smell like burnt toast - it smelt like - God, he doesn’t fucking know but he _knows_ what it was - what it came from. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, lets Steve continue his investigation, hands moving from his hair to over his skin. He opens the top buttons of his jacket to look at Bucky’s neck and collarbone - like he’s looking for a rash or something.

“Something had obviously remember the cell blocks. It wasn’t just weapons construction.” Falsworth says; eyes on their surroundings. “Maybe there was residue, and he had a reaction to something left over.”

“You mean like an allergic reaction?” Gabe asks.

Falsworth shrugs, “maybe.”

“You allergic to anything Bucky?” Dugan asks, then turns to Steve as he realizes Bucky’s still fighting a headache. “He allergic to anything?”

“Orange cats make him sneeze.” Steve offers out.

“That must be it then. A reaction or something; they come in all different ways.” Gabe says, because it doesn’t make any sense for it to be anything else. Not anything that he can admit without them thinking he’s gone barmy. “You’ were picking something up before we found the second room--”

“_We?_”

“Yeah okay, when _you_ found the second one.” Gabe corrects, rolling his eyes; knowing Bucky must be feeling better if he’s arguing over who gets the credit. “It must have properly been exposed when the door opened.”

“It did get stronger in there. The smell,” Steve adds, “like _a lot_. I was only getting whiffs before but actually in the room; it was like it quadrupled…and people can have neurological reactions to stuff. My ma would always get splitting headaches and hives if she ate pork. ” The boys nod, taking that in, “I’d like to know what it is you’re allergic too though.” Steve grumbles at last, still checking his skin and ears, as his eye and one hand keep twitching again and again.

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Bucky can’t help but mock, though with effort. “Are you worried about me?”

“_Yes._” Steve says significantly, not taking the bait. “Is it just your head, and the…” He trails off as Bucky’s fingers and wrist twitch involuntarily at his side.

Bucky nods jerkily, “It started fading as soon as I made it out here. Fresh air, you know.”

Steve observes him carefully, but clearly can’t see anything pressingly physical left over. “Okay. In that case lets get the rest of the way out of here.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” Bucky mumbles as Steve pulls him to his feet, and leads him into the shade of a tree. Bucky’s given watch from that position as the rest of them finish setting the charges - none of them willing to let him return inside the building.

“God knows what else has been in there.” Dugan says, “Take point out here, yeah, we don’t want you getting another reaction.”

“And if you smell any whiff of that shit in the future - get the bloody hell out and leave it to one of us!” Monty calls as he heads back in.

Forty five minutes later they can see the smoke above the trees a few miles off as the last of the building goes down in flames and dust. Their packs are weighty with everything they could save from their crated supply truck; now on foot, heavy, achy and very sore. Steve and Dugan are moving stiffly, though Steve's wears off not too long after, and Gabe is struggling to carry anything with his bum arm.

“Good riddance.” Jones says from beside him, and the group make Bucky walk in the middle of them - his arm and neck still occasionally twitching like he has a new-found tick.

“It’ll wear off.” He tells them when Jones notices and inadvertently points it out to the rest.

“Oh yeah? You seem pretty certain; like it’s happened before.” Dugan says, calling him out. Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, wrist twitching again, this time not from the ‘allergy’.

“What hell’s that supposed to mean?” Jones says before he can, frowning, affronted by the comment in defence of him. He seems to give Dugan a look of warning.

“Seems fairly obvious.” He says, ignoring it. Steve looks behind him like he’s stuck between getting in the middle of this or curiosity in letting it play out. Jones opens his mouth.

Bucky bites out before he can, “I only meant that I’m feeling better. So it’ll keep wearing off. Will you get off my fucking back?”

“I’m not on your back, Bucky--”

He shoves past him to push forward.

“Really, man?” Jones hisses behind him to the older solider.

“I’m only watching out for him--”

“Maybe find another way Tim, seriously. What happened to watching your mouth? Getting at him is not gonna’ help--”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit weird--”

“No. And even if I did, I don’t care. Stop attacking him over this shit.”

“Attacking him?” Dugan whispers, and Steve glances behind him as he, Bucky and Falsworth take point at the front. Bucky keeps his eyes forward, pretending he can’t hear like the Englishman beside him is pretending not to. “I’m not the one with the fucking attitude all the time--”

“_I know that_.” Jones says, a little more sympathetic. “But all your gonna’ do is make him get defensive - especially stupid as shit questions like that. It’s uncalled for.”

“I’m only saying what I’m thinking.”

“Well, maybe don’t. We don’t know what happened - stop acting like it’s all some big conspiracy. You can’t blame him for a having a goddamn allergic reaction Dum Dum, Jesus Christ.”

There’s a vague mutter of “If that’s what it was,” and the sound of Jones smacking Dugan somewhere on his body.

“You feeling better?” Steve asks next to him.

Bucky nods, honest this time. He’s feeling better with every step they take further away from that place. There was nothing they could strictly identify as a lab with what was left - but what _was_ left of that skull encaser said it all. There might not have been serum experiments going on there, but there was some sort of electroshock ‘therapy’ going on there as well as in the asylums.

“Like I said, it got better when I got out of the room - away from - whatever it was.”

Steve gives him a small smile, squeezing his arm. Monty pats him on the other. “Okay. Good.”

. . .

(**PHOTOGRAPHED IN ASSEST EXTRACTION ON THE MOVE.** THE "AMERICAN." DISTRIBUTE TO TO ALL HYDRA INTELLIGENCE.)

(HERR SCHDMITT:_ I want identification of The "American" - find and target weaknesses._)

. . .

Steve makes him sit by the light of the fire in the evening and strip off his upper half so Morita, one of their trained medics of the group, can double check him out after Gabe and Steve receive touch-up bandages. They shine torchlight in his eyes until he’s squinting, make him rotate his arms and wrists out without twitching, make him follow their finger like his coach used to do every time he took a nasty head shot in the ring - and he can see Steve, sitting on his side as always feels the familiarity too from how his near constant frown has softened. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh when Bucky deliberately throws out the same stupid silly comments he used to say when Morita asks him questions. He smacks him on the bare arm after the fourth. “Take it seriously.”

“Who says I’m not - I’m a--”

“Serious cat I know,” Steve says, rolling his eyes, “and the actual saying is ‘curious cat’ for the twentieth time. Answer the question properly, smart ass. Unlike your coach and pa Morita will wallop you if you throw another one out.”

“Damn straight I will.”

He gives straight answers and then they both shine the torches over his bare upper half to check for any rashes or swelling. He shivers at the feeling of being exposed, but it’s raining again while they sit with the fire under a strung up tarp to stay dry, so it can be disguised as a reaction to the chill.

“Almost done, Buck.” Steve says behind him, checking his back as he shivers again. The truth is he doesn’t feel the wet cold, he’s always cold anyway.

“Yeah, you can wrap yourself up like a burrito again soon enough, Sarge.” Jones calls over from where he’s organizing their K-Rations with one hand, the other tightly wrapped at the elbow; immobile. “Don’t worry, you can make yourself look ridiculous again very soon.”

“Joke however much you want, I’m not the one who’s got the sniffles.” As a perfect coincidence; a spectacular turn of events, Jones chooses that moment to sneeze into his elbow - proving Bucky’s point. “My burrito is more than efficient.”

Morita’s fingers pad against his left shoulder, shining the torch closer. “Might have--” _something here_, is what he’s going to say.

“--It’s not a rash.” Bucky interrupts, knowing what he’s seen. He stares at the fire. “That was there before.”

Morita glances at him, and Steve’s torchlight stops moving over his back. The camp seems to have gone suspiciously quiet. Thank god for crickets and buzzing midges.

“Looks like a burn.” Morita says, seemingly without thinking right as Steve cranes his neck over to see. He seems to regret it the second the words leave his mouth, and the feel of Steve’s gaze disappears back to Bucky's spine. He seems tense too - but also like he’s seen the burn before; its one of the larger ones that still lingers. _He had your blood-work_, Bucky remembers, _he probably saw those photos._

“Yeah.” Bucky says flatly, an end to the conversation.

There’s a moment of silence, observing. “Yeah. Okay. It’s not a rash.” Morita says, and moves the torch away to keep looking.

Steve joins him, sweeping the torch over his lower back and sides. Morita (and Steve somewhat)’s torch freezes on several spots; mostly what's left over of the too deep burns from molten metal - rough skin where hair has stopped growing, or the very thin silvered scars just about visible on his unfreckled body, and then move on. He hears the metal of the torch (or torches) creak as someone’s hands (or both) keep tightening on them. They’re vigorous in the search, taking his ‘allergic reaction’ seriously. It’s actually_, really,_ super nice of them in a way - makes him realize it’s not just Steve who cares.

Morita touches his stomach, sweeping away the dark belly hair - Bucky snatches his wrist, lightening quick. Morita’s arm freezes, and he glances at Bucky’s face. He stares at Morita; and when he lets go Morita backs off respectfully - shines his torch away as an afterthought.

Steve doesn’t seem to have noticed, focused on the nearly two inch scar on his lower back before realizing it’s the one from when they were seventeen and he jumped behind Steve after a shove so he fell on broken glass instead. He taps it, huffing, as he always does when he sees it - annoyed and guilty. There’s someone else’s gaze on him, and when he looks back up Dugan’s watching him steadily. He raises an eye in challenge. Dugan looks away.

. . .

_He’s sat on the Cyclone and Steve is strapped in beside him. He starts shifting, instantly uncomfortable on the seat, yanking at the bar._

_“You okay?” Steve asks._

_“I don’t -- can we get off?”_

_“Wha--” Steve splutters, “you’re the one that wanted to come on again - you practically dragged me on here--”_

_“Yeah I know,” Bucky says, “I changed my mind. I don’t like it.” He rattles the bar again, but it’s locked down over his thighs - he can only raise it to his waist before it stops. He rattles it harder, then yanks his knee up, trying to clamber out._

_“Whoa, Bucky, hey--”_

_“Oi you! Stay in the seat!” The operator yells._

_“No - I want to get off!” He shouts to get the guy to let him up._

_“Are you serious? Come on, I haven’t even thrown up yet.” Steve tries to joke to calm him. “At least give me a chance. Bucky_ ** _ calm down_ ** _ \- you’re gonna get us thrown off.”_

_“Good!” Bucky snaps at his warning. “I want off. I don’t like it I--” The ride hisses and jolts forward, the metal wheels and carriage connectors squeaking on the track - “shit shit--”_

_“We’re moving now pal, you can’t get off.” His friend says. “Bucky sit down!” He grabs Bucky from the side by the shoulders, pushing down as the ride finishes it’s curve and the momentum of the upwards climb sends them into the back of the seat. “You can’t stand on this thing! You’ll whack your head and brain yourself or fall out - you’re fine, pal. It'll be over in like two minutes.” He reassures, “It’s just a ride. You’ve been on it before.”_

_Bucky breathes out shakily, hands gripping the safety bar so tight the veins around his knuckles stick out. “Okay, okay.”_

_“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks, “you loved this ride last time, you always make us queue for hours with the rush. What’s going on?”_

_“I don’t--the bar.” Bucky tries to explain, “it’s too - I feel trapped.”_

_“You never minded it before--”_

_“I mind it now Steve!” He snaps as they get higher. “I don’t like being trapped.”_

_“Okay. Okay, I get that -” Steve soothes, “it’ll be over in two minutes - you know what’s coming - there won’t be any surprises.”_

_Someone calls him a “fuckin’ baby” from a few carriages away, and Bucky hears a women tut as she covers her child’s ears. Steve turns round and tells the guy to “shut his big mouth!” minus the f-ing and feffing, though it’s obvious in the unsaid._

_“Or what, pipsqueak?” The someone yells back._

_“Or I’ll come over there and shut it for you!” Steve shouts back without a beat, one hand on Bucky’s forearm. He turns back to him, squeezing. “How about we make a deal: if you don’t throw up I won’t throw up - sound fair?”_

_Bucky nods at him quickly, staring at the back of the _ _carriage_ _ in front of them, holding his breath. They’re the third carriage from the front._

_“Bucky.” Steve reminds him. “Breathe.”_

_“Right, yeah.” He says, and remembers to. Steve asks him, because he’s never cared about the _ _restraint_ _ on any other ride before - what’s changed?_

_Bucky turns to look at him right as they crest the first drop; American flag flying on the corner; the truth on his lips for once. “I was tortured. They killed me a hundred times over - they’re still killing me. They strapped me own when they cut me open too.” The sign as they pass under it says REMAIN SEATED. _

_“What?” Steve bites out in a flash, face horror-struck. Then they drop._

_Both he and Steve yell out, and Steve grabs harder at his arm, butt flying out of the seat before slamming into the safety rail. Bucky’s white _ _knuckling_ _ the bar; and the _ _carriage_ _ is rattling him all over everywhere as it rockets down the hill. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as the coaster hits the dip base and the track swallows him up in a open mouthed gulp._

_He’s slammed onto his back and leather straps - lightening fast - slap themselves over his thighs, chest and feet. Like magic they slide through metal rings and yank - Bucky gasps out a breath - until they compress his ribs and buckle themselves with a cling clang of metal. Light sparks, stabbing into his eye. The rattling of the carriage continues until it’s not the _ _carriage_ _ \- the carriage is gone - and he’s fitting on the table - his eyes rolled back into his head, spit frothing at his mouth._

_Steve’s on the table next to him, _ _fitting_ _ and frothing too._

. . .

He jolts away, a half aborted "Ste-e!" spurting from him, more croaked gasp than shout.

. . .

“You ever had surgery?” Morita asks one day. “When you were a kid?”

Bucky glances at him in surprise and wariness. “Why?”

“You have a gnarly looking scar on your stomach.” Morita says as they patrol the area. It’s the furthest behind the line they’ve been yet. Both the last times they’ve been alone together Morita has looked like he was chewing on something. “You can’t see it easily with the hair but - it’s pretty big Sarge - seemed serious.”

“Yeah.” Is all he says, like he did when the man commented on his shoulder burn scars.

“I thought,” Morita says, “that maybe Cap wasn’t the only one with health shit as a kid - but…I take it if I ask him what I just asked you he’d say no.” Bucky shrugs one shoulder. “Am I right?” Morita presses.

Bucky shrugs again, looking forward; not giving him an answer while also giving him an answer. Jim sighs softly - really seriously, _sincerely_ says: “I’m really sorry that happened to you Sarge.”

“Yeah.” He says, the same flat tone.

They walk in silence further, kicking the soggy, rotting fallen leaves of winter into clumps as spring begins to set in. The buds have begun to appear on the kind of foliage that flowers. They’re in the centre of Germany near Regensburg, moving West, sneaking through the most dangerous country back to France, zig-zagging back and forth. Command wants intel on how heavily armed their side of the Marginol line is North and South now; something about the lead up to D-Day. Philips has apparently argued that they should be focusing on Hydra, but until they get more recon on the next one there’s not so much they can do about it, and Philips isn’t the only one calling all the shots over there. They have near constant patrols, every twenty minutes, on edge and paranoid until they’re more secure in their position.

“Don’t ask him.” Bucky says suddenly, before he can stop himself.

Morita nods, “Of course.” Then, flat but angry: “_Fuck Hydra_.”

“Yeah.” Bucky says, “Fuck Hydra.”

_. . ._

_(Evaluation sent to 234011 110 weapon placement store following “American” assault. Test run un-initiated . Modifications required on A-2201 FLAK. Damage Extensive on destruction - unstable core.)_

_(SENDER: HERR. I POKORNY RECIEPICENTS: HERR DR. A ZOLA, DR. BOGDANOVIĆ)_

_. . ._

_“You are testhema. My test subject.” 25 Zoll, 14 Zool; Dick, 11 Zoll underarm. Call me Bucky.---No. You are not. We have a _ _schedule_ _ to keep to. Bite down. Get out._

_Do be quiet._

_Help me._

. . .

He wakes. It’s still dark, so he waits until it’s light.

. . .

“Did you sleep?” Steve asks.

“Did you?” He fires back. “And yes, a little.”

He spends the rest of the day silent, moving in a moody daze. The boys and Steve know not to press him, so leave him be as they walk, and then allow him to be the one to wander the streets of Regensburg in a German uniform. He’s deemed as looking the most German out of them all, as apparently that’s a thing; looking German, but it’s also probably a way to give them all a break from him. He wouldn’t be surprised - he’s terrible company. They were waylaid and spotted on the outskirts of the city moving through, and it was easier to loose notice and ditch their tail in the city in the mix-match of buildings than it was in the countryside; more twists and turns, more hidely -holes; much easier to disappear behind. The others are waiting out hidden in the attic of an old warehouse in the manufacturing district. It’s the easier exit out in the morning. Steve’s also wandering that immediate area with their small camera - documenting a few photographs of what he knows will be targets of the Allies while they’re here. There’s an aircraft factory here, and several oil factories too.

He goes to see what’s about and to get a hold of a newspaper to remind themselves of the date and the troop movements, or at least, what the Axis side is reporting. The Allies only tend to report the good news too, the successes and the German repels; propaganda is not something you can escape anywhere. Gabe says he’ll be fine, cause he can understand when he listens - and his German’s okay; “just don’t talk much. The accent gives you away.”

He nods silently and leaves. On a brighter day he’d quip, “don’t talk? I thought you liked my dolicte tones, Jones.” Today is not bright day.

Regensburg is probably a nice city; may even be brighter and colourful in normal times, the buildings different shades. Now it’s just grey; the stones, the bricks, the barrage balloons, the people, the trees; the flowerbeds. The newspapers when he gets to them are stark block black on white; and it’s the most contrasted colour he can see. It’s not the dull sun or the February sky; it’s him; everything is numb and grey and dull and empty.

It’d probably be a nice city if it wasn’t war and wasn’t him.

. . .

If he opens his mouth can he breathe fire, breathe smoke? Does he carry a plague of locusts within him; is he a curse on himself or a curse on others? _What happened to the Israelites after they crossed the sea? Papa where are you? Please come._

. . .

There’s a blade at this throat.

Gabe carves the knife up over his jawline, along his cheek. He wipes the blade back and forth on the cloth they use for shaving to clean it off, and returns to his neck, sliding the blade carefully over his Adam’s Apple. The man himself still has spots of soap foam by his ear from where Bucky did him ten minutes ago. It’s harder to do it themselves without a mirror - so they don’t, and Gabe is by far the best at it; a slip of the hand by him is unimaginable, even with a jacked-up, still healing arm.

“Thank my Uncle Ronnie,” Gabe says, “for forcing me to work in his barbers for three years to get ‘work-learnt.’”

“Thank you Uncle Ronnie.” Bucky says obediently. He’s in a slightly better mood today - or at least a more willingly talkative one. Everything is still grey and lacking colour.

“Cap, you want doing before we loose all the light?” Gabe asks quietly across the room of the attic warehouse - now off shift and empty. Steve’s perched at the window, tucked out of view behind the window frame but with a view of the surroundings. There’s various buildings; a lot of yellow brick and grey stone; standing and rubble both. Some buildings in the city simply have a hole in the roofs, others are entirely gone; blown apart except for the front facades. It’s a lot like London in this particular city district, whereas the Regensburg central square is entirely intact, which is nice for them.

_ Destruction is all destruction_, Steve said to him yesterday when he returned.

All of them are wearing the German uniforms they stole in Belgium, though Steve’s shacked the too short outer jacket to free up the tight armpits. He’d spent an hour stitching up the holes from bullets and fire in his uniform earlier.

“No, I’m okay.” He answers after thinking for a moment, and runs a hand over his stubbly half-beard. “I’m actually quite enjoying it seeing as we don’t have to report in for a while.”

Bucky huffs, “You’re just proud you can actually grow a half decent one now.”

Before, he wasn’t able to grow anything aside from under the edge of his jaw and a thin slither above his lip. He used to whine that he wanted a beard, and that he wasn’t a moustache type of guy; at which point Bucky would normally laugh and tell him he’d never be much of a moustache man anyway, considering three single hairs total don’t count as one.

“More than decent actually.” Steve replies, not taking the bait; marking down something on a page. At first Bucky thinks he’s writing, planning, strategizing and the like - until he looks twice and realizes he’s drawing. “And yes._ I am proud. _It’s better than you can do now. That makes me even happier.”

“Well I think you look very distinguished, Cap If I do say so myself.” Dugan says, who’s always in favour of eccentric facial hair. His moustache as it is remains his one true love, and is only trimmed down because it has to meet army regulations. Not that Bucky cares, he reminds himself.

“You would.” Bucky grumbles under his breath with a added: “Kiss ass,” even though Dugan’s never been anything of the sort.

Jones smacks him lightly on the leg, hearing it where the others don’t; finishing up carefully wiping off the barbers knife. He tips water into Bucky’s open palms when he offers them, which he proceeds to splash onto his face to wipe off the suds. The cold water is like a waking flush and a thrill runs through his spine; washing the tiredness from his eyes. He does the same for Gabe, who murmurs:

“You wanna’ knock it off?”

“Not really.” Bucky replies faux lightly. Gabe sighs, as there’s not much he can do about it. “We’re leaving in the morning right?” Bucky asks, louder. “I don’t like being this far behind the line.”

“We’re always behind the line.”

“You know what I mean.” He levels a look at Morita, who shrugs it off.

“Yeah, early morning start.” Steve says, “patrols should be easier to slip past - but until then we bed down for the night. No fires. No torches. No sounds. We stay under the radar until we’re out of the radar.”

They’ve been delayed by a whole day from their original tracked route but precautions are precautions. They’ll continue on West after that to recon the Marignol Line and stop off to investigate two potential small Hydra strongholds, or just simple outposts depending on what they are. They saw vague locations noted down in the files they recovered in Belgium, this side of the line. That intel came from their readings instead of from Command - and Steve’s had it noted down and circled as pressing since the moment Gabe translated - always with a plan to return after Czechoslovakia. Philips was all for it on the radio, however brief, and following that to move down to Italy by the end of the month to report in. Until then they’re free to operate as they see fit - and boy does Steve have a busy schedule for them.

Bucky would tell him he’s got nothing to prove here - but it’s a little, or entirely, pointless as far as Bucky’s concerned. Steve can be warned seven hundred times but he’ll always do what he wants in the end.

Their meals are cold and flavourless, but treasured, and they end their night early - Dernier takes first watch - Falsworth second. Steve bows out and finally decides to also get some sleep, forgoing third watch tonight. Bucky sits against the wall instead of curled up in the floor; bedroll under his butt and a spare blanket wrapped round his shoulders until he falls asleep sat up and not strapped down on his back. His last memory is a French lesson with Dernier, who talks with his eyes on the sight-lines through the window and the beat of the third movement of Beethoven’s _Sonata No.17_ against his thigh. He imagines it in _D minor, Allegretto _\- and it follows him into sleep.

He jolts into wakefulness; from dark empty to dark; it’s not from a dream.

_Vrrrrooosssshhhhee - ermeee - vrrrooossshhee - eemneeee - vrrrrroooosssshhhhheee!_

The siren alarms out - a disturbing voice into the pitch darkness - his heart skips - he feels the harrow in the very pit of his stomach. The siren Is positioned two buildings away on the roof - it’s _loud._

Everyone’s awake; woken up - some almost frozen in confused disillusionment. They take a couple of seconds to function normally. Then they’re up, twisting out of their bedrolls. Steve’s already at the window with Dernier.

_Vrrrrooosssshhhhee - ermeee - vrrrooossshhee - eemneeee - vrrrrroooosssshhhhheee! _It fades in volume and pitch then spirals out again - angry, warning - _meant to inspire panic_, Bucky thinks. They’re in a German city; at the time of an Allied air attack - there’s a Masserschmitt BR 09 aircraft factory here - they’re in the middle of the manufacturing district - _oh fuck!_

Suddenly he - randomly, crazily goes to, for the first time in his life:

_Saint Michael the Archangel, our guardian and protector, defend us in our hour of conflict. Be our protection against the wickedness…_he forgets,_ blah blah blah blah - guard your children in their hour of most desperate need!_

_Vrrrrooosssshhhhee - ermeee - vrrrooossshhee - eemneeee - vrrrrroooosssshhhhheee!_

“Is it a carpet bombing or strategic?” He yells over the sound, hands over his ears - realizes Falsworth is yelling the exact same thing while Dugan darts into another room to get a view from the other side of the building. Carpet or strategic - it makes a huge difference to their position.

“I don’t know.” Dernier answers, “it ‘as not started--”

The Flak aircraft artillery starts firing - to the side of Steve’s head through the window Bucky witnesses flashes timed with _booms_ light up the city. He can hear it from all over, near and far, smaller guns and bigger guns.

The first lot of shells seem to drop - noise mixed with the sirens and the _boom-bang_ of the Flaks. Fire lights up with the flashes miles away - a street goes up - all Bucky’s can see is the bright flashes of light - the ground shakes beneath them.

“They’re hitting there - carpet then--”

“Just cause they’re hitting there doesn’t mean that’s where they’re targeting,” Falsworth yells; grabbing their packs, “they’re dropping blind up there. We need to get out - get underground.”

You don’t need to tell Bucky twice - he has his, Gabe and Dugan’s packed and good to go. He throws Dugan’s at him as he comes running back in to warn: “Searchlight trucks!” as they come careening round the corner; trailers hooked to the backs.

_Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck_\---

“Get out now!” Steve yells, morning retreat blown to hell like that street. They don’t have an Anderson shelter in a garden, nor can they leg it to the nearest community one. Mobile searchlights are rapidly redeployed to where the German’s can guess that the bomber stream is headed from airpath - so they’re headed here.

They drop floors like their downing pints; and Steve jumps the stairwells to clear the way for them. There’s a large multiple story window as they move; on the third stairwell a searchlight spots a plane - four lights converge on the one craft. The plane corkscrews to try and escape the cone of lights in pursuit - Bucky hits Dugan - thrown forward off the fourth step. They both crash into the corner wall, grunting as the ground shakes. Dust falls on their heads.

“Urgh.” Dugan groans as Bucky pulls him to his feet, “what is it with you New Yorkers tackling me off my feet all the time?” He regains them quickly, and they both drag each other by the armpits down, down down.

The fifth blue radar searchlight of one truck locks onto the corkscrewing plane - he’s done for. Bucky pushes off the stairs, pulling Dugan with him to flat ground as the physical rumble hits - he lands on his side - the bullet peppered plane a few streets away explodes - dark smoke blooming in the backlit sky.

_Vrrrrooosssshhhhee - ermeee - vrrrooossshhee - eemneeee - vrrrrroooosssshhhhheee!_

The ground rumbles - Bucky drops as the shells do, hands over his head - when he looks up, he looks up to see an inferno eating and incinerating everything in it’s path.

“Go go go!” Steve yells and they burst from the door; ready to uncover their hidden supply truck and get the hell out of dodge - the factory at the bottom of the street explodes; fire arching in the sky - and the next street over - and the next - they try run; ignoring the searchlight trucks - they round a corner - Morita yells - feet leaving the ground. Steve grabs him sharply and yanks him back as the inferno sucks him in.

“Back back back” Falsworth yells, their way blocked. “Fire cyclones! They’ll suck you in!”

Steve yanks Morita; still off his feet back to the floor and round the corner. His skin’s lit fiery and orange in the fire and flashes of Flak lights - more shells - he looks up as if seeing the sky through the ceiling. 

Go low!” He orders, as there’s nothing else to do. “Bottom floor - get under the furniture!”

They run at full pelt to the factory work-stations, skidding across the floor.

_Vrrrrooosssshhhhee - ermeee - vrrrooossshhee - eemneeee - vrrrrroooosssshhhhheee!_

Steve shoves all seven of them at force - they loose their feet - rolling under the tables. The last thing Bucky see’s as he rolls is Steve not under the table as the ceiling explodes.

Steve falls.

_No!_

.

* * *

_NEXT TIME ON MAN THE GUNS, THE HOWLERS ARE COMING:_

_Steve’s eyes flutter under his lids - and before he knows it he’s coughing, and then he’s curled up as small as he can make himself. He can’t - he can’t move. He groans, coughing, pushing his palms into the dirty floor - his head’s not - Ow ow ow - what’s happening? Where is he? He can’t move._

_He gasps out, panicked, scrabbling at what little part of his body he can; eyes still closed. He can smell dust, and smoke and the heady scent of oil. Heart thudding in his chest, he calls: “Boys?”_

_He’s slightly surprised to hear how weak and breathy his own voice sounds. He certainly doesn’t feel that weak - but then his leg - ice cold just moments ago begins to heat up with an incessant throb he recognizes. There's something heavy pressing down on his back, constricting his - he can't breathe right._

_“Boys!” He calls again, voice croaky; but louder this time, dread filling his belly worse when he receives no answer._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REFERENCES:
> 
> SPRINGFIELD RIFLE AND ZEISS SCOPE: Bucky's rifle. He also carries a Thompson, and a Colt side-arm for other assaults.  
SNIPING: A lot more goes into sniping and just aiming and shooting - there's a reason there is speciality training for it involving textbook and calculations. Snipers usually work in twos - a spotter and a shooter; the spotter judges the distance with specialized binoculars etc. and works out the details - and that combined with the experience of the sniper leads to more effective work. Lots of things affect the shot: Distance, angle, wind speed, target height and the curvature of the earth also has to be accounted for.  
T23 FLASH HIDER - Technology at the time that helped hide muzzle flashes, but it was rather clunky and consisted of several parts - I've also heard it could be rather loud when it was turned on. There are photos online if you want to google it.
> 
> BOOKS MENTIONED: Julius Friedrich Lehman - first suggestion of eugenics, Mein Kamp by Adolf Hitler, Grants Atlas of Anatomy - illustrated textbook. The Conquest of Pain - is a more worrying book, along with Blood Disorders and Psychiatric Treatments for the Feeble Minded are all real books published in the last thirty years from 1944.  
BEETHOVEN'S SONATA NO.17, D MINOR ALLEGRETTO : Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYdv5jk09XQ  
FLAK GUNS/ARTILERY : German Anti Aircraft guns, positioned on the roof.


	25. PART 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bricks collapse onto Steve, red stone, and grey stone, white stone and yellow - cold and unyielding. In the collapse of darkness he hears the jeers and - they’re stoning him. It’s dark dark dark - he’s trapped. He can’t move. He----
> 
> Steve has never liked the story of Saint Stephan. He’s always liked the tale of the Old Testament; the covenant of Jonathan and David best.

STEVE

Steve’s eyes flutter under his lids - and before he knows it he’s coughing, and then he’s curled up as small as he can make himself. He groans, pushing his palms into the dirty floor - his head’s not -_ Ow ow ow - what’s happening? Where is he?_ He can’t - he can’t move.

He can smell dust, and smoke and the heady scent of oil. Heart thudding in his chest; an incursion of panic encroaches.

_No, stop. Stop. Think. Take a moment, survey, take cognizance of. Take a breath. What’s the last thing you--_

It doesn’t take long for the movie reel in his mind to stop jumping across the poorly-edited, horrific last minutes of consciousness for Steve to piece it together. With a sickeningly lurch of his stomach Steve recalls losing all balance as the world around him quaked - the force of the seven shoves - the sight of his boys skidding across the floor under the work-tables. He remembers hitting his knees on the scarred and rugged floor, feeling the foundations crack beneath his sweat-slicked palms - and then - darkness.

There’s something wet on the floor and on his face and in his eyes.

Coughing out the dust he’s breathed in with his panicked gasps, Steve blinks his eyes open blearily, dust thick on his lashes. He makes himself hold still, taking stock of his surroundings and his condition. He’s landed face down, half laying against a slanted piece of concrete; cold from the unyielding surface juxtaposes against the heat of the fire from before; seeping through his clothes and climbing up his skin. The hair on the back of his neck stands shock straight.

He can see - that’s a bonus. He can also breathe, although the silt-like quality of the air indicates that’s he may have been out a good while since the chaos of the blast. His head aches from crown to jaw, and his right leg feels sickingly numb.

With a grunt of effort he moves his hands carefully down his body until he comes in contact with the rough edge of a broken piece of concrete. Dust falls from his lashes to sting his open eyes as he blinks, trying to shift and see just how much of his body is beneath the rubble. The quiet’s starting to weigh on him as much as the concrete; his eyes wet._ It’s to clear the dust_, he tells himself shallowly, _that’s all. _He forces himself to take a another breath, grateful for the shield on his back that has apparently protected his vital organs and spine from more than bullets his time. He calls out:

“Boys?”

He’s slightly surprised to hear how weak and breathy he sounds. He certainly doesn’t feel that weak - but then his leg - ice cold just moments ago begins to heat up with an incessant throb.

“Boys!” He calls again, voice croaky; but louder this time, dread filling his belly when he receives no answer. He listens out, closing his eyes to try and hear his squad, if the fires are still burning, if the shells are still falling, if it’s safe, if the fire cyclone down he street is going to suck out all his oxygen and if he’s going to suffocate_. If if if’s, so many._ The ground’s not shaking or rumbling with blasts so the shells must have stopped, but that’s it - he can’t hear fire, or if the sirens are still blaring - everything is muffled under the ringing in his ears. Everything is dark. He can’t move; trapped twisted on his front.

_God, is this what Bucky feels like all the time? Trapped like this?_

He heaves his body up, and the slab over the shield slides off with the gravity. He tries to turn onto his back - the shield edge digs into his ribs in an uncomfortable way. _Okay. Take a breath_. Bracing himself for the lightening bolt of pain; he clumsily shrugs off the outer suit and magnetic clasps. The shield clangs off his back - the concrete jerks, crumbling into stones on his face. He freezes, but it doesn’t come down further - so he rolls as best he can, drawing short puffs of air to stave off the nausea as he wiggles under the weight of the concrete over his leg.

Looking over his head he realizes it’s not entirely dark - he can see faint light filtering the space from a two foot crack about ten feet above him. A beam of light - early morning dawn - not orange flame, drifts down through the opening and illuminates the debris around him like a halo. Or maybe that’s just the dust…Either-way he realizes he can see roughly five feet on either side of him. There’s two cross sections pillars creating this pocket of air he’s miraculously fallen into. With stiff clumsy fingers Steve reaches down to along his right thigh, trying to assess the damage.

He’s able to shift his left leg to the side to alleviate some of the pressure on his spine. He nudges the slabs around him; bracketing him in and down to see how stable they are -_ if he moves it is it all going to come down on him?_

_While they were stoning at him, Stephan prayed, ‘Lord Jesus, _ _receive_ _ my spirit.’ Then he fell on his knees and called out,’Lord, do not hold this sin against them.’ When he said this, he fell asleep._

_You haven’t been stoned,_ he reminds himself sharply. _He doesn’t want to fall asleep. He __doesn't__ want to stay down here. _Off to his right Steve hears the muddled _click, snap, fuzz_ of his radio. He cocks his ear closer - pushing past the ever insistent ringing - _click, snap, fuzz_ \- a voice. The others - they’re trying to reach him on the short range radio.

Risky, but a great relief - _they’re here, they’re okay, they’re looking for you - they won’t leave you_.

He pads his fingers up to his shoulder - the radio’s not there - then he realizes; he’s still wearing the German uniform with the shield clasp straps over the shirt, not his suit - it’s buried somewhere beneath what remains of the oil factory - then thinks he can spy his pack and uniform in a space underneath a pile of bricks. He reaches across, trying to grasp it - _if he could just_ \- his leg and entire body twinges sharply and he grunts, _okay, no_. A shadow moves across the waning sunbeam - Steve looks out the opening far above him.

“Hey!” He cries out, “Hey! I’m here! I’m down here!”

No voice responds. As far as he knows that shadow could have moved from across the street. He’s lost orientation as to how far inside the building he’s -- _they’ve_ tumbled; is unsure how deep below the surface he really lays. There were several floors; the others are probably trapped too but -_ you can’t think about that - as long as you have air, and aren’t bleeding you should be---_

His hand moves to the side of his head, blood coating his temple, eye and cheek. His fingers come away wet, and probably red if he had enough light to see. _His blood_, he realizes dazedly, _he’s bleeding._

His radio fuzzes again; keeps squawking in static - voices distorted and continuous. Something shifts above him, dust rains down in a cloud making him cough - he scrunches his eyes shut, hacking - _well, this is __familiar_\- when he opens his eyes again there’s more - there’s more light.

“Cap, can you hear us, man?”

“Steve!” Is fainter.

“Oh, hey! I think I’ve got him!”

He jerks his head up, muffled sounds amplifying to clear as the crack above him widens, breaks open. It’s Gabe. _Oh thank god, they’re okay, they came for him. _They shout something else - but the ringing is still persistent.

“You’re too - you gotta’ come closer!”

“Can’t do that at the moment, Cap!” Jones’ voice shouts down at him, but louder - and there

Light streams in - Bucky’s dust coloured face and Jones’ jawline are in the hole above him.

_"Blackout ist immer noch im gesamten Raum Regensburg in Kraft. Bitte warten Sie auf die Abs. Ihre Aufmerksamkeit, bitte. Alle Bürger bleiben bis auf Weiteres drinnen. Im gesamten Raum Regensburg gilt nach wie vor ein Stromausfall." _

(**"Blackout is still in effect throughout the Regensburg area. Please wait for the all-clear. Your attention, please. All citizens shall remain indoors until further notice. Blackout is still in effect throughout the Regensburg area."**)

<strike>“ </strike>you hear us?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls, “that’s better - are you guys<strike> ”</strike>

“We’re fine!” Bucky shouts as Gabe says, “bit roughed up but otherwise ”

“Y’okay?” Bucky interrupts sharply.

“Fabulous.” Steve replies tightly. The pain’s centralized on his ankle, he can now tell. Bucky and Gabe squint into the hole they’ve made, trying to get a visual. Abruptly he realizes his radio has stopped constantly squawking - they were using it to locate his position. Bucky shouts the same again, banging against his own ear - Steve realizes he didn’t hear Steve the first time.

“Nope.” He says this time, louder, popping the _p_ the way his friend would. He can immediately tell the quick, almost child-like reply has sent Bucky’s pulse into a panic.

“Steve!” He barks out, coughing himself. “Talk to me - where are you hurt?”

He blinks, squinting, as something cracks and part of the light is further obscured - someone blocks it - someone else grunts - his hearing comes back more and more. Fingers appear and heave on the rock, and the hole becomes wider. He blinks as more light spears out behind the two of them; lighting them from behind. Steve’s quiet; eyes on Bucky but not really seeing him; images from the ‘fall’ keep forcefully inserting themselves into his vision and he’s becoming dizzy.

“Steve!” Bucky repeats, and he’s _back_. “Where are you hurt?”

“M’head’s killing me,” Steve finally confesses.

“Yeah well,” Bucky allows, “a building falling on you can do that. What else? Legs? Arms? Chest?”

“Arms good. Ribs aresore, I’m not sure.” Steve says, “ The shield covered me. Leg not so much.”

“Can you move?”

“Not…really.” Steve replies, voice tight.

“You pinned, then?”

“Yeah.” Steve says, swallowing. He tries to move his foot and only succeeds in wiggling his toes. The effort costs him and he lets out a brief sound of pain.

“_Steve?_”

“I’m okay.” He gasps, “my…my leg’s pinned under some concrete.”

“Is it broken?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, even though he’s pretty sure the boys still can’t entirely see him. “Fractured maybe? Hurts like hell, though.”

“You sure it isn’t broken?”

Steve licks his dry lips, closing his eyes and concentrating all his effort on moving his foot. He reminds himself of how it felt when he broke his nose (more than once) his fingers (more than thrice) and the difference between bruised and broken ribs after a fight. He remembers when Bucky had broken his ankle once at a League baseball game when Steve came to watch, after trying and failing to make the team himself. He’d had an opening to steal third, waited until the pitcher had moved his wind up, then launched. It was a perfect execution of motion, right down to the slide; until his cleat shoved the base aside and his toe caught in the prairie dog hole it had been covering. His momentum had carried him forwards while his foot stayed still and c_rack. _Steve had been on the back row of the stands, and obviously hadn’t heard it over the _oohs_ and _boos_ coming from the crowd around him, but from the way Bucky’d hit the ground and the way Steve’s ma had stood up at the way it twisted had made Steve stand too - and he’d known something was wrong. The game ended in a tie and Bucky had been driven to the local home doctor in the back of a friend’s pick-up truck, his father driving; Steve’s ma holding his head in her lap and Steve clinging onto the side of the truck beside him.

_“You know,” Steve’s ma says mildly, “I’m starting to think you boys never want me to have a day off. Just one week I would like to have a day that doesn’t involve bandages and ice-packs.”_

_“To try and cheer up the tense atmosphere, Steve quips: "What’s life without a bit of fun?” _

_Bucky bites out in painful _ _segments__, grinding his teeth: “This. Isn’t. Fun.”_

_“Your sense of humour has always been terrible so that doesn’t surprise me.”_

_“I. Hate. You.” He jolts out a sharp yell as they’d go over a pot-hole in the road, jostling him - and Steve’s ma silences him with a ssshhh and a cool palm over his sweaty forehead. _

_His father yells out, “sorry lad!” where most father’s would have told him to suck it up._

_“Well, I don’t hate you.” Steve replies, grimacing for him. “On the other hand, it was very dramatic - from the way Susie Myserson was looking at you I’d say you’ve got some doting in your future. Think of class on Monday, that’ll cheer you up.”_

He thinks about how creased Bucky’s forehead had been, and the pain he used to feel himself when he’d heard his ribs crack from a nasty past punch. This did not feel like that.

“I’m sure.”

“Good.”

“Oh.” Steve adds as he realizes, “one finger’s broken too. Not that it’s a priority.”

“Do you think you can get free?” Gabe asks in his vague downward direction.

Steve grunts, “maybe. I haven’t tried yet. Hang on.”

He forces himself into a half sit, bent at the waist;_ ow ow ribs ribs_; he feels along his leg and grits his teeth against the obligatory outcry. He clasps the edge of the concrete - he can easily lift it now that he can reach it, he realizes, and manages to get both hands on it, and pulls. Something cracks - everything around him rumbles.

“Steve _stop!_” Bucky shouts suddenly, loosing his balance above him - something elsewhere crashes. He obeys, freezing, “Stop! Stay where you are!”

Several moments of tense quiet, below and above, beat out in painful beats. Steve feels his palms grow clammy with anxiety - waiting for the entire structure around him to collapse inwards. His breaths are loud as the rumbling stops.

“We’ll come to you - don’t - don’t move anything until then.”

“Gotcha, okay.”

“It’s gonna’ take us some time to dig you out, or our way in.” Jones informs this time, “we’re trying to get there before the main patrols get here. We’ll get some water down to you.”

“Okay,” Steve says again.

“Not long, Steve.” Bucky promises, a lot less convincing. “We’ll get you out - just - don’t move. Has anyone got a torch? I can’t see him.” He switches to, turning away from the gap.

Steve lets his body drift back. There’s more air coming in now. _You won’t suffocate, you won’t suffocate. They’ll get you out - just wait. _There’s vague movement going on up above and he realizes they’re chipping away at the crack and moving carefully around it. Someone passes Bucky a working torch, and he shines it down after bashing it with his hand a few times. Steve groans, squinting.

“_Shit._” He hears him swear instantly. “Steve - are you bleeding anywhere else?”

Steve opens his eyes properly again. “What?”

“Are you - Morita!” Bucky calls, waving the man over to see. Jim appears in his vision; looking even more dusty than the other two - he’s got clusters of cuts along his forehead and shoulder - jacket ripped there. Steve squints as Bucky moves the torch. “Are you bleeding anywhere else?”

“Bleed”

“You’re head is bleeding, Rodgers,” Morita informs, appearing more visibly in the crack and looking him over, as calmly as he can. Steve numbly presses against his head - fingers are sticky but not liquid wet anymore. _Oh yeah._ “Head wounds bleed a lot, so it probably looks worse than it is. I just need to know if you’re bleeding anywhere else.”

Steve does a quick body check again, to be sure. “No, no I don’t think so.”

“Were you knocked out?” Morita questions.

“Yeah...yeah I think so. It’s morning now so - but otherwise I feel okay.”

“Well, thank fuck for that,” Jim breathes, and Steve’s hearing must finally be back if he can discern that. “Bloody miracle is that - you’re one lucky guy, Cap, once again.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call getting stuck at the bottom of a collapsed building _lucky_, Jim.” He calls back as Morita calls his condition out to the rest of them. Dugan, from somewhere unseen, shouts:

“Being alive at the bottom of a collapsed building is where the luck comes in, you shithead!”

Steve doesn’t know how many commanding officers would allow their soldiers to call them a shithead with such easiness - but it’s probably not many. The crack gets wider as they work, Bucky chipping away with one hand while he trains the torch with the other in the hole - shifting it around so Steve can see the entirety of where he’s trapped.

“The fires?” He shouts suddenly, “are they still burning?”

“Wha--yeah. Down the street but not in the immediate. Why?”

He’s finally worked out where the heady thick smell is coming from. “Oil barrel down here - it’s leaking near my feet.” There’s a thick black sludge coated down one side of the concrete and an encroaching puddle making it’s way over the floor. “They’ll be more everywhere in the rubble - if the fire reaches it - they’re gonna catch - it’s not safe.”

“We’ll get you out before it turns not safe then.” Bucky replies without preamble. “We’re getting you out.” Bucky repeats, grunting - a whole piece of slab breaks off - Steve raises his shield for cover just in case - but Gabe’s back - and has a hold of the broken piece before it can fall. Everything around Steve rumbles - and they all freeze - waiting.

Nothing collapses and kills Steve. He looks towards the opening, but he can see the light beam has shifted and faded enough that outside of the torch - he can barely make out his friend’s profile.

“I trust you, Buck.” He replies quietly.

_I know you do._ Bucky doesn’t say, but Steve can hear it. The quiet work on the other side settles on Steve’s shoulders like a lead yolk. With renewed determination he leans over and begins to carefully work the smaller rocks from beneath his leg free while he still has the battery of the flashlight, hoping to create enough of a space to pull himself free without causing the slab of concrete to fall further and crush his leg - or crush the rest of him like a squelchy grape. He pulls, snail-like slow; uses a cluster of bricks to try and leverage any big spaces he clears to keep the slabs in place.

“Rodgers?” Jones’ voice calls, “water’s coming down.” He’s guiding a rope and rod down to him when Steve looks, hooked with the largest canteen they have.

Steve’s dry mouth thrums with anticipation, and he quickly unties it, swallowing rapidly. He coughs a few more times - drinks some more - then tips it over his head; rinsing his eyelashes from dust. He blinks a few more times as his vision becomes as clear as it should be.

He tucks the canteen close, breathing, and takes another mouthful, blindly raising his shield over his head as the boys accidentally disturb the wrong brick.

“Sorry!” Morita shouts at the same time one of the others snaps “watch it!” He goes back to working what he can off his shin and ankle.

“Steve, keep talking to me--us.” Bucky’s voice comes back after a few minutes.

“About what?”

“Anything? Art - Da Vinci, what you’re gonna get me for my birthday, hell - liberalism if you want.”

Steve laughs, “God, you must be desperate.”

Bucky only stresses, “keep talking to me.”

Steve clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve seen me - what about the rest of you?”

“We’re okay, Cap, really.” Morita says at an angle; working with Bucky to lever away a larger slab. “Thanks to you. We got trapped underneath - together - but the workstation held strong. Had to dig our way out. It’s why it took so long to reach you.”

“It did?”

“You got knocked out Steve, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” He says vaguely, remembering. “Yeah.” A hand snakes to his ribs and rests gingerly over a tender spot. “In that case - big questions.”

“Whassat?”

“We should talk about big questions,” he says, louder, “I feel like that’s what people do in situations like this - use the time.”

“Big questions, huh?” Bucky asks, “bigger than ‘did you eat the last pork chop on my eighteenth birthday?”

Steve laughs, “bigger than that.”

“Damn,” Bucky says, but his sharp scared tone is fading the more Steve talks to him normally. “That’s the biggest mystery of my time. Alright, who asks first? _Steve, stop_.” He says afterwards as Steve shifts something he shouldn’t. “What did we say? Wait for us, you impatient bastard.”

He stops; leans back. “We’ll flip a coin,” Steve replies to the first half, not moving now. “Heads I go, tails you go.”

“Flip away, Magic man.”

Steve waits a moment, eyes closed to feel the darkness under his lids. “It’s heads.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky says sagely as Gabe says:

“Why does that not surprise me? That surprise anyone else?” He calls louder.

There’s various barked ha!’s and “not a chance in hell” and “is there a world where it wouldn’t be his heads?”

Steve blushes, then lifts the half full water bottle to his lips, drinking deeply as he braces himself for the question he’s been wanting to ask for a long long time, ever since Bucky first claimed him as his own.

“Okay, here goes.” Steve says, “why--”

“Incoming.” Jones interrupts from above. He stops. “Dernier's on his way down to you.” is what Steve hears and then Dernier, the smallest of them slips through the hole and rappels down to him.

“Good morning.”

“Morning Jacques.” Steve replies, as the man lands and checks Steve’s head. There’s just two lacerations; one on his temple, and one in his hair. It could be a lot worse, nobody is under the impression Steve’s mostly uninjured state is_ normal. _He checks how trapped Steve is actually trapped. Steve twists and ties a secondary rope around his waist and groin to eventually be pulled up. More dust and natural light continues to creep in as the hole above him gets wider and wider until the boys are sure they can get his shoulders through. Dernier gives a _mostly_ concealed look of concern at the spilled oil when he manoeuvres himself; but mostly covers it.

“What a time to be alive,” he says, “I think it’s a beautiful morning for a game of jenga.”

Steve blurts out a laugh - Dernier is the undefeated champion of particular game if he is to be believed. “Glad I’ve got the champ with me then.” Steve says, “what do you need me to do?”

The answer is mostly nothing while he works, then he instructs Steve to lift a specific piece while he waits at the edge to lodge a structure underneath, torch in his teeth.

“Now, Capitaine.” He orders.

Steve obeys. He feels his leg shift and bleats out a curse as the pain ricochets through his body. Renewing his effort he lifts the concrete slab slide just to the right; in a rush of pins and needles; all together too much _feeling_ swarms up his leg from his ankle and - he’s suddenly _free._

The release - even though that’s what they’ve been working for - is unexpected. He tumbles to the side, his wounded right leg fully across his left. He holds in the cry and breathes through his teeth, blood rushing back into the limb. He reaches tentative fingers towards his ankle, feeling the hot skin swelling beneath the torn remnants of his trousers. He won’t be walking on it anytime soon, but he’s still fairly certain it isn’t broken; though it’s a close one.

“Bon?” (**Good?**) Dernier asks.

Steve breathes out another laugh, “I’m starting to think we should get extra hazard pay, you know?” He jokes in French.

Dernier grins, dust and sweat caught in the creases of his smile. A third and fourth rope drop into the hold; braced on either side - there’s _all _his boys - he’s never been happier to see their ugly faces _in his life._

“Anyone call for a ride?” Dugan quips.

They hike him and Dernier back up after retrieving his shield and torn pack from under the bricks. His shoulder catches on the rock - but he’s able to squeeze through - then he’s free. He has to close his eyes a moment from the sunlight. _He’s out, thank god._ They help him over to level flat ground, hidden behind a wall; and put on a temporary brace made from wood and tape. Bucky’s at his shoulder, on his haunches, hand digging claw-like into the joint.

“I’m okay, Buck.” He says, rolling his eyes. “No permanent damage.”

“You’re such an idiot.” Bucky responds, “you had Falsworth crying he was so worried about you. He had a right turn.”

He smirks at his friend, “Oh, I gave _Falsworth_ a turn, did I? I’m sure.”

Bucky averts his eyes.

“Next time you shove us, Cap,” Dugan says, “shove yourself too, yeah?”

“Hallelujah to that.”

“Or better yet - lets not get caught in an air-raid without cover.” Falsworth cuts in.

Steve jokes, “I think we all needed a little pick me up, we were getting a bit tired.”

Bucky drops a canteen on Steve’s leg, face flattening, up already in protest to that familiar inside joke.

“You’re lucky you’re bleeding,” he tells him, a warning for not getting hit. Then he mumbles, “I’m going to steal a truck.”

“We’ve already stolen another truck.” Jones reminds him.

“Then I’m going to steal another one. For the fun of it - I need _a pick-me-up_.”

Steve cackles in hysterical relief.

. . .

Steve’s got three - probably - cracked ribs, half a concussion and a very mild fever, not counting his leg. He could probably use about a week of sleep and enough water to drown a camel, and though he doesn’t let them see it - he still feels a little shaky from the shock of it all.

Bucky tells him, quite explicitly, that he is willing to sit on him to assure he stays down if he thought it would work. Before Steve can answer his pal’s launched into a muttered rant of how _seven bouts of pneumonia and a broken jaw ain’t enough to bench Captain Dumbass when he was only a Dumbass before the Captain; why would a building dropping on his head manage it? Jesus S Christ._

Steve can’t help laughing, then has to grunt, cringing as his breath catches. “Stay still.” Morita orders as he’s wrapping his ribs.

Bucky would also apparently like to know how someone can only have “half” a concussion, but he’s decided he’s going to wait ‘til Steve’s recovered enough to get yelled at to ask.

“You’re already doing that.” Jones says, eye in the canvas hole watching the road behind them, gun at the ready. They’d knocked out every recovery man that appeared on the street before, during and after Steve’s entombment - _and God Almighty that’s a horrible thought_ \- so they’ve managed to get out with minimal notice - and have hit the countryside - heading South-West.

“I’m not yet. _Trust me_.”

Steve would jump in and agree with that statement, but he’s never been one to work against himself.

“Or you can just trust my assessment, Barnesy.” Morita says as he secures the bandages with a clip. “He’s still tracking so he ain’t that concussed.”

“See?” Steve insists briskly, “I’m fine.” He’s already wearing his back-to-business face despite that the fact that Morita’s barely had time to wrap his ribcage properly or get him on a super-solider grade of morphine. “I am. Experts say-so.”

Bucky crosses his arms, sat opposite Steve, feet to braced feet. “You seem to forget that I know what you look like when you’re in pain.”

Dugan says: “There’s a difference between survival mode - and ‘fine’, Cap.” Bucky for once looks like he agrees. Steve makes it clear that he so doesn’t.

“I’m fine.” He repeats.

“You are very clearly not.” Bucky kicks in, then boots his good leg when he tries to shift onto his knees. “Sit down or I _will_ sit on you.”

He sighs, all exasperated like, and submits. He wears the brace for the whole day - and puts no weight on it; sat in the back of the truck they’ve hijacked - _Bucky’s truck_ \- to make him feel better. He’s bruised and battered under his suit, all scrapes taped and bandaged; and his head throbs something fierce for the first few hours. He feels like a Egyptian mummy, or so he keeps joking, not that Bucky is amused at his particularly class-act comparison.

By lunchtime Steve’s head has gone from throbbing to the mild occasional pulse, more annoyance than anything else, and by evening his scrapes gain new fresh raw skin and start closing themselves up. He drinks as much water as he can get, still feeling like there’s dust clogging up his lungs despite knowing there can’t be. Psychosomatic, the doc’s used to say.

His bruises linger longer than he thought they would, still blue and achy, and his stomach rumbles for food they don’t have. Hopefully that could change soon, he prays - they’re low on rations so have decided to use Steve’s recovery time to detour to where there’s a Nazi supply stash. They’re planning on a quick in and out midnight raid - Dugan, Falsworth and Jacques as a trio.

His middle finger clicks back into place on it’s own before dusk comes.

Jacques watches it happen, and his face is every so slightly queasy. “That e’s disgusting,”

“You should look away before my toes start then.” Steve tells him, then winces as the shorter thicker bone of his second toe snaps back into place. The crack is more pronounced this time - Dernier utters a “urgh” and shivers a little. Steve cringes in anticipation as the next one’s about to--_right where everyone can see--_Bucky appears at his foot, and methodically threads his sock back on to cover it from sight, the way he’s always touched him when unwell; soft but respectful.

He does not look phased whatsoever when he glances up at the feel of Steve’s eyes on him. “I’ve seen you fire snot rockets out your great honker,” he tells him frankly. “I’ve eaten your Prune pudding. There are far more disgusting things you’ve done than having things snap into place. I wonder if you’d grow back?”

“Let not test that,” Steve says, scrunching his face at him, but grateful since he can’t lean over to do it himself with his ribs still as they are. “But thanks - easier to..well, not to see it, I guess.”

“For other people or for you?” Bucky asks quietly, calling him out immediately.

It’s hardly the first time he’s seen and felt it happen. A stage light came down when he was with the USO, and he pulled Veronica out the way in time from the other side of the stage, but caught his foot in the crash. Three toes were broken - and then unbroken not even a day later. He’d watched them with a morbid curiosity in his dressing room as they snapped from seventy-five degrees to zero degrees. He’d thought,_ wow, look at me,_ in amazement.

Steve shrugs at him, then changes the subject. It’s not important -_ but _he notes,_ that’s not something Bucky seems to find weird on my body - but it’s clear from how he’s otherwise been acting that there is _**_**something. **_**_Clue?_

“My prune pudding was nowhere near as bad as Robbie Canistern’s Mulligan Stew.”

That seems to do the trick in turning Bucky’s skin a tinge greenish. “Christ, don’t remind me - I still have nightmares.” Steve laughs, Bucky adds: “You know he put fucking tobacco in it?”

“He did_ not_.” Steve can’t tell if that’s a question or pure, disgusted disbelief. And people called him and his ma ratchet poor skivers.

“And sawdust.” Steve mimes throwing up, which unfortunately doesn’t quite bring the smile he wants to Bucky’s face. “’ts a mircle we didn’t die from poisoning, to be honest.”

“I like to think it was hostile stomach acid from all the cabbage.” Steve says, “Or the peanut butter and mayo sandwich combos.”

“Screw you, they were great.”

“They were_ okay_ when you had nothin’ else.”

“They were one of my favourites. Part from Hot Dogs, o’ course” Bucky says. “Plus it was only thing I could throw at the girls that they’d eat.”

“Yeah, because you have _no standards._”

“Coming from the guy who used to drink ketchup like it was milk.”

“That was a household prescription. From a doctor.”

“A doctor who was about forty years out of date.” Bucky accuses, voice going higher as he shuffles backwards. “That whole tomatoes fix all smuck was _bullshit_.”

“Well I didn’t know that at ten, did I?” He practically grins.

Steve almost craves the back-and-forth they’ve turned into an art form after fourteen years; almost glutenous even - but like usual now, Bucky drops the act early. He does smirk at Steve at least, all charming like, flicking him on the big toe that’s just let out a loud, well-defined crack. “Ow.” Steve pretends. Bucky gets up to join Jones on back-road watch as they drive._ Guess he’ll have to keep trying._

. . .

“I was just going to make supper,” he protests, “I’m clear for that.”

“Like hell you are,” Bucky retorts, “I’ll do it, you’ll eat it. You eat your own cooking right now you’ll probably die.”

“I’m feeling very attacked right now,” Steve says, knowing he looks absolutely not attacked at all. Dugan _snorts_ \- loud in the way that actually probably isn’t safe.

“You’re such a shit.” He tells Steve, chest vibrating with laughter.

“How else do you think I convinced you lot to follow me?” He replies, “a shitbag’s charm.”

Bucky mutters “_shitbag is right_” which only makes Steve’s mood better. Clearly he does not hide it well.

Jones leans over and whispers, “Stop baiting him, man.”

“But it’s so fun.” Steve whispers back, which makes Jones’ small grin turn into a large one.

He kind of wants to hug his pal, honestly. It’s been that kind of day, not that he’ll admit it - and being under that concrete…he could really use a Bucky hug. Bucky gives _great _hugs. And they’ve hugged plenty, it wouldn’t be weird.

“Stay down by the fire.” Bucky orders next, then to the others, “before he catches goddamn pneumonia.”

“But Buck,” Steve laments, “that’s my favourite kind.”

Bucky slams the pan down, tosses Jacques the flint and _sits on him_. Well, he did promise. It’s pretty close to the hug Steve wants - so he’s more than okay with this. His breathless chuff as Bucky wriggles on him gains him a small satisfied smirk too, which is a special plus.

. . .

“Don’t tickle me.” His friend warns, still sat on him as their rations brown off.

“I’m a _Captain_, I’ll do what I want_._”

. . .

The blood from his head has gotten all in his newly grown beard, all crusted - it’s a bitch to get out without a proper bath and they don’t have enough water to wash it all out. So Steve does have to shave after all. It’s very upsetting.

“Which suits me better, do you reckon?” He asks, rubbing at his now clean-shaven jaw with only a mild razor burn. It’ll be gone in a hot minute. “Now that you’ve seen me with both?”

Bucky tips his head and ponders for a second. Then comes out with: “Neither.”

Steve laughs, “and you say I’m the asshole.”

. . .

“I don’t think we’ve done this yet -” Morita decides, “but what was everyone doing before the Japs struck?”

“Or when the Nazi’s breached Belgium, that’s when we joined.” Falsworth cuts in.

“Or when they invaded my country.” That one’s Dernier.

Morita raises his arms, “Yes yes, alright. Before the war then.”

“God, that feels like a lifetime ago,” Dugan says, mostly to himself.

“Hear hear to that.” Bucky mutters on top of Steve, _still_, stirring the grape sachet into his canteen with circular wrist movements. Steve reckons those are the first words of his that haven’t begun as a snap to the man in weeks.

Monty was in Officer Training at what constitutes as West Point, so he was always going to be fighting. Runs in the family he told them, which they joke_ sounds about right._ He tells them to screw off, but with good fun. Jones was in a Segregated Charter College doing language studies, at _Howard University_, which is an amazing school Steve’s always heard from his LSNR acquaintances. Languages of choice: French, German and he was supposed to be starting Spanish in the fall too with how quick he was picking it up. He tells them he made a bet with his sister that he could learn four languages in four years, and he hasn’t given up yet even with a war on.

“We need to get you down to Spain then!” Falsworth laughs, “or hijack a Red Army man for your personal translator.”

“Or we get a good-looking dame for me whose language services I can donate to you if I’m feeling kind.” Dugan says and Jones scoffs, chuckling.

He jerks his chin up. “Would you prefer Spanish or Russian?”

Dugan honestly thinks about it a moment. “Now that’s a tough question. Russ---no Span--nah, Russian for sure. I’ve heard they give you a run for your money. You know they got a bunch of dames as snipers over there. God, can you imagine - a dame with a gun on her hip. Now that’s something else.”

“We technically already have one of those, you know that right?”

“Well, yeah. But Carter’s Steve’s girl.”

“Carter is no ones girl.” Steve cuts in, casual-like.

Dugan chuckles, and nudges him on the good leg with amused respect. “Yeah, I know. I only mean you’ve got her number. Or more like she’s got yours.”

“That second one sounds more likely.” Morita says, double-acting him.

“_Yes, alright_.”

“Just saying Steve,” Dugan says and lays his palm over his chest like he’s reciting the national anthem, “hand on heart, I will not jump the number queue. She is all yours to do, or not do, in whatever so form you may choose.”

“Alright alright,” Steve smiles, “we’ll find you a Mosin-Nagant girl to keep you off this subject, that’s my own promise. Jones, carry on.”

He does, telling them he moved away from all his family in Richmond to go up to Washington for his chartered education - it’s where he met Louisa and they started going steady. _She’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen,_ he says_, head of close curls, hazel eyes, espresso skin and intelligent as all hell too_. She looks great in golden tones, but purple’s her favourite colour. They want a big family - Jones really wants a daughter though. He’s gonna propose when he goes home. “She’s a real idealist, and thoughtful. Most articulate person I’ve ever met - until Monty-Tonty of course.” He winks.

Morita was already joined up before Pearl Harbour in January of 1940, serving in the US Army’s Nisei Squadron as a Ranger under Happy Sam Sawyer, whose someone Steve’s heard a lot about. Before that he was working in a radio manufacturing plant after the drought of 1936 dried up a lot of the farm work. He took whatever job was out there, which became less and less outside of Little Tokyo as the decade wore on and anti-Japanese sentiment rose. He joined up cause it was the only steady wage he could ensure for his family, and proved everyone wrong and excelled. All his brothers are serving now too of course.

He knows a good few of the answers already from their files but the rest don’t, so it’s good conversation.

Steve himself did close to near every job out there too that didn’t demand hard physical labour. There was the printing house, then the local WPA centre for a while, the grocers stocking shelves, then minding the counter and lottery numbers, his near constant paper-round before work, the printing house again, a freelance cartoonist for the papers sometimes, sign painting - then the radio shack which was the longest he held onto.

He was training up to do courtroom drawings when the war broke out; had a mentor and everything.

To be a courtroom artist you had to be attentive and fast - and where Bertie focused on the flowing shapes of the body in life drawing, he spent months focusing on speed instead of intricacy - emphasizing negative spaces and facial detail with pastel and graphite. Countless drawings were wasted to accidental smudging until he learnt to lift his wrist. When William Sharp agreed to mentor him it was the most enthusiastic he’d ever felt about work - about a _career_ and not a mere job to get by - and he’d really honestly thought - _this, if I can’t fight then this is something I could do for the rest of my life._

Near every surface in their apartment was covered constantly in pastel dust for a good while, in direct stubborn conflict with his asthma. Steve’s pretty sure Bucky spent near a month constantly sneezing.

Jacques was a demolition man - which Steve did not know - but now, yeah he can totally see it.

Dugan snorts and chortles; “now that makes sense. I was barman until I hit, what, twenty two, twenty three. Then a scout caught me out when he was visiting; convinced me with a couple a dozen scotches over a week to join his circus as a strongman. An’ I did that ‘til the harbour - then off to Africa I went.”

“What about you Bucky?” Falsworth asks.

He grunts and says, “Docks. And school.”

Steve rolls his eyes under him. “He was at Pratt, doin’ architecture. Minoring in engineering - that’s what you decided right. In the end?” He asks, already knowing the answer but wanting Bucky to engage in the conversation with the others. He’s been sticking pretty close to Steve all day. He just shrugs and says, _yeah_, then shuffles zestfully deeper into Steve’s ribs.

“Ow.” Steve says pointedly to just him. They’ve moved to the business Dugan had on the side of his strongmaning, co-owning a drinks cart with his brother. Their uncle’s running it now. “This isn’t exactly helpin’ with the _cracked_ ribs, you know.”

“It’s keeping you down,” he retorts, and shuffles his butt again out playful spite. Steve grumbles so Bucky slides down off his chest so he’s sat on the ground. He leans back against Steve’s belly when he turns on his side. “Better?”

“Much.” He says, poking Bucky lightly in the ribs.

. . .

_This story of the stoning of St. Stephan goes like this:_

_In the year 33 - St_ _ Stephan, the first Christian _ _martyr_ _, stands tall on the the highest step of the Sanhedrin; the Supreme Jewish Court of Law._

_He is one of the first seven deacons _ _ordained_ _ by the Apostles, and his good works and eloquent preaching has gained for him the envy and the hatred of the Sanhedrin already. He stands on the tallest step and recounts the many mercies that God has given the children of Israel, and the ungrateful way in which they had repaid Him. He accuses them of murdering Jesus, whose coming, he says, had been foretold by Moses. This angers the crowd and he is dragged out onto the streets, and before the Damascus Gate he is stoned to death, according to law at the time._

_Witnessed by St Paul, his last words, during the _ _bludgeoning_ _ goes as follows: “Lord lay not this sin to their charge.”_

_He is the Patron Saint of bricklaying. Steve has always thought that unfairly _ ** _ **un**_**_ironic; cruel even._

. . .

“Whatcha, thinking about?” Bucky’s voice asks from the darkness.

The fire is out, the surroundings are silent. Dugan, Falsworth and Jacques are off on their midnight theft - _adventure Cap, adventure _-_ like in the movies, off down the Nazi brick road _\- and the boys are sleeping in the back of the stolen truck off the ground. There’s lots of bugs tonight, so they’re itching everyone by jumping over their skin and burrowing into their clothes. Bucky’s on watch until they’re back.

Steve, lent against the tyre, sweeps a couple of beetles off his thigh. He’s undecided where he’s going to sleep - but it’s not going to be yet. He’s not entirely sure how Bucky could tell he was still awake. “St Stephan.” He answers.

“St Stephan?” Bucky says doubtful, voice low so as not be heard. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

“Nothing just - he’s the martyr saint. He got stoned.”

“Yeah I know. I do remember some of what Sister Judith whacked into me,” Bucky says, and in the light of the moon it looks like he shivers. “_Oh_.” He says after a minute. “Okay. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Are you in pain, right now?”

“No, not so much any more. All bones clicked into place.” He smiles sagely, even though his friend can’t see him. His eyes aren’t as good as Steve’s now. Bucky doesn’t say anything this time - but the moon catches again against his jacket - quivering and curling.

“Are you cold?” Steve asks quietly, quickly; the temperature has dropped some, though not too bad.

Bucky shrugs, “a little.”

Steve cants his head in a quick toss. “Get over here. I’m a walking furnace now.”

“I--” He stops, and the darkness seems to grow ever deeper. An owl hoots nearby. He’s worried about the boys, hopes they’re going alright. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

Suddenly, after a shuffle, Bucky’s up against him, a line down his side. He lays his Thompson over his lap and knees; the barrel half against Steve’s hip - there’s no goosebumps on his skin - but the cold is there. Steve can see it. More in his posture than anything else - but, actually, that’s the posture he has a lot of the time. He tries to push any excess heat he has into the body at his side.

He remembers the coldest he’s ever been, at sixteen, that one awful bitter winter. It had been a icy season, not snowy, and every other day was a storm. It had started off fun, skating and skidding down the pavements, and then Steve had nearly broken his neck on his way down the stairs of the Barnes’ new apartment - Ronnie next door _had_ broken his leg; and then as he’d regained his feet Steve had seen the pipes beneath had begun to freeze over. They’d stopped working the next week for near three weeks - all the heating on a good two blocks in Bucky’s district - and then Steve and Sarah’s gas heating was cut off cause they couldn’t pay the extra charge. Next thing he knew Brooklyn became a ghost town - almost like that time Steve returned with the USO - everyone staying indoors as much as they could; hounded under all the blankets they’d owned. Even the richer, professional classes were staying inside with their fireplaces and stoves on full blast. The only people to be seen were the homeless - huddled in alleys over trash can fires. It was expected, that winter, that any day you did go out you’d likely come across a frosty body under a doorway or a park bench; stiff and blue.

Then he’d gotten sick, then really sick, and then sicker than that.

Before everything got faint and distant he remembers being aware that Bucky must have come by to drop off the veal stew that only came from St Agnes communal kitchen; because his ma certainly hadn’t left to stop off at church. So he must have, even if Steve didn’t see him. After that - he remembers nothing but cold for a good long while; and dreams of his fingertips and toes, and then his hands and feet turning black and falling off. His entire body ached, his muscles seized up as they trembled for what felt like forever, his throat scraped raw from dry coughs.

The only thing he knew apart from the ice, was that he was dying.

Throughout the night he felt the vague heat of the stove, his bed pulled right up to it where his ma had made her own trashcan fire, and then his ma was gone. Left. Not coming back? Then the stove heat left him too, even though the orange light lingered in the blurry outlines of_ awakeness_. Another kind of heat had come along his side, shivering just as bad - making him vibrate into the mattress worse - grey-brown-orange blurs and nothing else. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, but he could smell apple soap under the heady scent of his own sweat. Then the blur of the sun, and someone said: “You’re calmer now.”

And he hadn’t died.

He hadn’t really woken up for another two days except to swallow rabbit soup he couldn’t see or taste; but was hot when it went down, and he hadn’t died. He’d lived.

They’ve never talked about it - but he’s pretty sure his ma sent for Bucky that night. He’s pretty sure his best guy stayed the night, and maybe the one after that. He just knows his hat was on the kitchen counter once between weak blinks and there was a moment where he caught side of a figure shivering at the kitchen table with a hot cup of joe; the lanky not-quite-grown stature familiar as anything.

He glances sideways - remembering the feeling, and reaches over to grab Bucky’s hands. “Give em’ here.” He says, and compresses them between his two palms and rubs up and down to warm them.

Bucky lets him for the most part, except to murmur “come_ on_” in exasperation when Steve leans down to breathe hot breath into them too. It’s not like it’s cold enough to see anyone’s breath, but even so.

“Do you remember that winter, when we were sixteen.” He asks as he rubs. “When all those pipes burst or froze over?”

“How could I forget? Worst winter ever.”

The twins got sick too, he remembers now. The storms kept it that none of the shops would open, and a bunch of people went hungry. He’s not the only one who suffered, he remembers now. Before and after that night, Bucky never took off his scarf once until the spring.

“Yeah.” Steve says.

“You think too much. You should really sleep, Steve.”

He hums, “I will. Not yet.”

“Waitin’ for the boys to get back?” Bucky says, “That’s why I’m awake, so you don’t need to.”

“No, no I do.” He says, and releases Bucky’s hands so they can return to the position on his gun. They’re pinker now, _warmer_, Steve is pleased to see. The light's so low he can only see a slither of his expression. “I _am_ okay, Buck. You know that right?”

“I do.” He says, and that’s all he says for five minutes.

The wind picks up a little, but gently, rustling the fabric of Steve’s pack and the longer fringe of his friend’s hair. He looks out into the deep darkness - wonders if he could ever draw or paint something so empty and devoid of anything, but filled with the _life_ of thousands; from the silent animals to the pesky bugs to each leaf and seed waiting to break from the soil. Would anyone come to see such a piece, a hole of black, if it we’re hung in a gallery?

“I’ve been waitin’ for you to die for half our lives.” Bucky suddenly admits, leaning further back into him, head almost on Steve’s shoulder. “I’ve never been ready for it.” Steve looks at him sideways. He utters again. “Never.”

“I’m okay, Buck.” Steve repeats softly, because what else can he do?

“I...I know. I was just - you scared me. That’s all.” He sighs, more a huff, and elbows Steve in the side. “Hardly the first time. I think you think it’s a competition sometimes.”

Steve matches the noise and expression. “Well, on the bright-not-so-brightside, we’re getting closer to actually evening out on each other now. You’re catching up with me.”

“That’s not a brightside.”

“I’m just saying. Silver linings and all.”

“--_-It’s not a silver lining either--_” They say together, Steve predicting the words - Bucky laughs quietly and shuffles so he’s further down to the ground, but also closer. Steve wonders sometimes if it’s conscious or not - especially the rare times it happens now with how controlled and tight he's become. It didn’t used to be - was just a part of Bucky you had no choice but to take with the rest.

Steve’s really glad to see that smile, though. He’s been trying to get it all day.

. . .

In the morning Steve actually is fine - thankfully. Almost as good as new, but allows himself to milk it a little longer - mostly to stop Jones and Bucky glaring at him every time he tries to get up. He’s a little achy, and he can’t quite twist all the way (_plus he’s so bloody goddamn hungry_) - but it’s workable.

They’re several days late, but soon enough - they’re back on mission.

Steve tries to forget about Saint Stephan and his stoning, and how deep, dark and cold it felt trapped underneath all that. It’s easier than he thinks as he packs their schedule up so they’re all busy and distracted with the day to day. Where there’s a day, there’s a guerrilla strike. Steve has other concerns too - one he’s got a plan for. Big questions, big questions, big questions.

_. . ._

_Bricks _ _collapse_ _ onto Steve, red stone, and grey stone, white stone and yellow - cold and unyielding. In the _ _collapse_ _ of darkness he hears the jeers and - they’re stoning him. It’s dark dark dark - he’s trapped. He can’t move. He_

. . .

The Howling Commandos are a great team with diverse skills and a deep camaraderie; and they quickly become something like family to Steve the more time he spends with them. He feels like he belongs, for the first time in a long time.

As much as he values their friendship though, none of them are as close or as dear to him as Bucky - who grows quieter and more distant the more time that passes - or more correctly - the more nights he goes without sleep. If he stupidly thinks Steve hasn’t noticed - then he’s not as smart as Steve’s always thought he was.

Those days are sparsed with random overeager days, like his childhood, where he elbows Steve with humour and spends half the day cracking jokes and terrible godawful puns. The juxtaposition gives Steve whiplash half the time.

He’s still thinner than Steve’s used to aswell, and like Steve he struggles to put on weight with their meagre rations. There’s a lot of things he loves about the changes in their lives; or more in his life. He loves the idea of finally being able to serve his country the way he wanted to and the way his father did, loves being able to just _do things_ with reckless abandon and not get killed doing it, and, though he’s still embarrassed by it - he likes the way people, and women, look at him now. He was ashamed of it in Brooklyn with little Harry Prowman; too scared to face someone only for them to look past him with anonymity - but no one from home knows him here - and it’s better. He finds he likes being taller than Bucky now too - and a part of him is a little shamed that he’s enjoying Bucky having to look up at him - but the height also means he can keep a closer eye on him; he supposes. Where Steve likes the height, though, he doesn’t like how he can see Bucky’s bones the same way he used to be able to see Steve’s. He doesn’t altogether like how their relationship has switched so completely on its head - and he certainly doesn’t like the change in Bucky’s life to turn him so vacant yet efficient.

He worries, a lot. Especially amount the nightmares, especially about the coldness; especially the way he closes himself off to everyone but Steve and the mission in front of him on the bad days.

Bucky once told him at sixteen; very wine drunk and on a even rarer rare downer that “I don’t do so well on my own.”

Steve had smiled thinly and told him_ I know, _because he did, and then: “come pal, lets get you to bed.”

_They’re on their way home from riding the subway cars for most of the night - Bucky wanting out of the apartment and Steve never wanting to miss out - even if Bucky was in one of his flyaway moods. The difference was this time a bottle of stolen wine tagged along with them; and Bucky had al__ready started drinking an hour and a half before he escaped from his apartment. He’s uncommonly teenagerly selfish tonight, hogging the booze; and _ ** _ **jesus, Steve cannot take him home like this**_**_. Look’s like he’s staying the night at Steve’s - luckily they’re not too far._

_“Ma’s the same way - which makes it worse,” he mumbles with his arm thrown over Steve smaller shoulder, staggering up the stairs._

_“Uh-huh.” Steve recites as required before the words cross his mind. He’s been the needed agreeing ear to Bucky’s ranting for several hours and it takes a moment to break himself out of it. He blinks, “no, wait…there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be with people.”_

_“’Tis when the people you wanna’ ‘e with are pe’ple who ain’t your husband.”_

_Steve sighs, he’s heard this line or similar several times tonight; but he’s no less sincere: “And that has nothing to do with you, what she does - and you’ve never done anything of the sort. You won’t - I know that. You know that. Having similarities isn’t a bad thing Bucky, you’re just…you’re just drunk, pal. Need to sleep it off - you’ll feel better in the _ _morning_ _.”_

_Bucky snorts, and they stumble; smacking into the wall with a thud. Steve hisses at him to _ _ssh_ _, and leaves him leaning on the wall while he fiddles with his key. “Actually I’ll pr’bly feel worse.”_

_Well, he has a point there. Steve remembers his first hangover painfully well._

_“Do we…we don’t have school tomorrow, do we?”_

_“Yes. We do. It’s Thursday.” _

_His friend groans long-suffering; going _ _deliberately_ ,_ purposefully - **annoyingly** \- floppy as Steve tries to get him back on his feet and into the apartment. “You need to shush.” He tells him._

_“You need to--”_

_“Steve?” _

_He curses silently, and the light switches on with a pull of the cord. “Hi ma.” He tries to say as innocently as he can, posture shooting up into straightness._

_Bucky chooses that moment _ _to_ _walk into the kitchen counter, “motherf” he cuts himself off before the full _ _expletive_ _is out when he sees her. His ma doesn’t like cursing._

_His ma looks _ _thoroughly__ unimpressed. She crosses her arms - oh dear,_ ** _ ** the arms - not the arms.** _ ** _ Steve** should** be worried. Goddammit Bucky. “Are you drunk?”_

_He laughs, only a little nervously, “no.” Sarah levels him with a look. He amends, thumbing at the the teenager opposite who wouldn’t know _ _subtlety__ if it bit him on the ass. “Not as much as he is.”_

_“Hi Sarah!” Bucky blurts far too loud for this time of night. Steve does not try to hide it when he groans into his hand this time. You are impossible, he almost mutters. _

_“Hello James.” She returns - then, the full force of_ **_**the look ** _ ** _returns to Steve. “He can’t go home like that.”_

_“I know.” He says, “that’s why I brought him here to sleep it off.”_

_His ma sighs, exasperated, in a way that says ‘of course’. “You told me you were going to the _ _library__.”_

_“I was - and then we…then we went out.” _

_With his morning paper-round and the shifts his ma’s been working recently they’ve been crossing all over each other - whenever she’s home she cooks, or she just goes straight to sleep instead of _ _interrogating_ _him on his whereabouts. Steve meanwhile, like many boys his age has been granted _ _unprecedented_ _ freedom - but while riding the subway until the crack of dawn is vaguely acceptable - getting completely sloshed while they do it is_ **_**decidedly** _****_**not.**_**_ Prohibition was only lifted a few years ago._

_“And where did you get the booze?”_

_“Um…The Barnes’ top cupboard.” The question of whether the Barnes’ are aware that it’s been taken doesn’t need asking - though honestly - with how they’ve been arguing lately Steve doubts they’ll even notice._

_“Pal!” Bucky _ _emphases_ _aghast, but unserious; pretend-like. “Are you sellin’ me out ” And Hello, there we go -_**_** this ** _ ** _is what Steve is used to when Bucky’s had a few; miles better than the version he’s been dealing with most of the night. _

_“James.” Sarah silences, and by god, he listens. “You know where the bedroom is - take the couch cushions. Go on.”_

_He looks vaguely abashed, and by the time he’s behind her he turns back and mouths a “sorry” at Steve for catching the flack for this when Bucky was the one who started it. “Steve,” His ma says to get his attention again, “you know better than this. You have school--”_

_“I know. I...know, it…It wasn’t like weit wasn’t a good night for him.” _

_His ma looks half-like she doesn’t believe him - her words explain why. “From what I know of that boy, which is a lot over the years - he is not one for bad nights. Or bad days for that matter.” _

_‘All smiles, all day, everyday’; she’s said about Bucky before; ‘as bright as sunshine with twice the energy’, Buck’s own ma has said. She thinks he’s making up excuses to feel sorry and take it easy on them - but this time it’s the truth - as _ _unbelievable_ _as it is. Bucky’s mood had thrown him for a loop too when he _ _obnoxiously_ _scraped back the _ _library_ _chair across from him; ducking his head on his hand and demanding Steve come with him ‘to do something. Anything.’ Steve’s never really been able to refuse Bucky - not anything important, and honestly that look in his eyes _ _unnerved_ _Steve probably more than he was willing to admit. Granted, half of that _ _bleary_ _stark look was down to half a bottle of Merlot and a skipped dinner, but he still doesn’t regret the decision._

_Unbidden he looks first at the ceiling then out the window and down street - the direction of the Barnes’ apartment a few blocks away. Sarah follows his gaze._

_“Ah.” She says tactfully._

_“His pop came home from base today - I think he mighta’ saw something. Or Bucky or Becca told him something - he wasn’t clear about it. They’ve been arguing since." Steve explains. "Bucky was already drinking before he came to get me at the _ _library__. I didn’t know he had it until a good way after. He needed to vent - didn’t want to go home."_

_“That still doesn’t excuse--”_

_“I know, I know…I’m sorry.” His ma raises an eyebrow at the word; the word 'sorry' is a rare one from him. “I didn’t want to leave him on his own - he never leaves me on my own when I’m sick. It’s different but the same.”_

_His ma’s look softens just a little. “You’re too kind for God’s Green Earth sometimes, sweetheart.” He goes a little red - opens his mouth to deny - to explainhis ma continues before he can. ”Do his parents know he’s gone?”_

_“Um, I’m not sure. Probably not. He left out the window.”_

_“Of course he did.” Sarah sighs, mutters “that boy” then “both you bloody boys” - and wow, Steve reckons that’s the first time he’s _ ** _ **ever** _**_heard her swear. She sighs again as Bucky smacks his toe into the bed-pole in the other room with a loud yelp. “Go help him before he breaks something, will you? I’ll call down to their lobby to have someone slide a note under their door for the morning.” She moves towards the door, tucking her dressing gown further around herself._

_“No, ma. I can do that, you should go back to--”_

_“Bed Steve. Now.” His ma interrupts, now an order. “_ ** _**To where I thought you were until ten minutes ago.** _ ** _We’ll talk when it’s light.”_

_“Yes, ma’m.” He agrees quickly, tune changing. He darts to her right and into the bedroom where Bucky’s shed his shirt and shoes; laid on his side over the couch cushions on the floor._

_“Sorry.” He mumbles, “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble too.”_

_“It’s fine.” Steve whispers, climbing over him onto the bed. Even so he makes a point of stepping on Bucky's bare stomach for a little easy payback - his ma doesn't get angry - she gets _ ** _ **disappointed**_**_. It’s worse somehow, and will be worse tomorrow once she’s slept on it he has no doubt. He takes off his sock and throws it at Bucky’s face, who snorts, then sneezes, pushing it off him. Steve settles down, tossing a blanket over himself as he looks over the mattress. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Just sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day. Things will be better.”_

_“Yeah. Yeah maybe.”_

_“They will.” He assures._

_The front door opens and closes again from across the apartment, then clicks as his ma locks it; padding on quiet feet to just outside Steve’s tiny box room, listening to make sure they’re not still going at it. The feet pad away, and light passes through the curtains faintly as a truck rolls down the street outside. He’s just on the cusp of dropping off when Bucky rolls over below him._

_“Thanks for tonight, Steve.” He whispers. His arm reaches up to squeeze Steve’s, then skitters away after a long moment. The patch of skin it leaves is pleasantly warm with sincerity. “I mean it.”_

_He smiles softly in the darkness. “I know you do. Anytime you need people, I’m your people. Okay?”_

_Bucky hums below him. “That’s a pretty good deal right there.”_

_“I know right.” Steve says, “lucky you for ever finding me.”_

Some people are solitary creatures that move well by themselves; Steve is both most of the time, but Bucky has never been one of them. Isolation, distance and all of that - it gets to him.

The fact that he’s secluding himself off his own back, by choice, is a stark - unexpected - physical representation of the change.

Steve thinks; _maybe Bucky believes it’ll make things easier if he doesn’t let himself feel, like Steve did at first in Belgium if he just cuts himself off from it all - but he’s wrong._ He has to be, and he still seems to not like something in Steve or about Steve; lingering over from Scotland. He’s over his stupid childish fear of Bucky running off on him, but he’s not blind. It’s okay, though; he has a game plan.

. . .

_(Be on guard. “The American” and squad are in your territory - increase your guard. Kill on sight._

_(SENDER: HERR DR. A ZOLA RECIPICENT: HERR. D. HEINDRITCH)_

. . .

Steve has never liked the story of Saint Stephan. He’s always liked the tale of the Old Testament; the covenant of Jonathan and David best.

. . .

“Hi.” Steve says, stopping just short of him. Bucky is cleaning his rifle like he’s almost always is.

“Hi.” He replies in bemusement, looking up at him from the ground.

“I have an idea.” Steve tells him.

“Does it involve me getting up?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Just for that Steve drops down to his level, crossing his feet under him to cut that argument short. Bucky sighs, laughing, and puts down the rag he’s using to wipe down the oil from the hammer to give him his full attention. Every part of his favourite weapon is laid out in front of him, carefully placed and evenly spaced. Steve can easily pick out the firing pin, the smallest component. If he were to move a part off center Bucky would probably pick it up and move it to the other side - carefully placed and exactly evenly spaced away from Steve’s interfering hands.

“Okay, I’m all ears. What’s the idea?”

“More like a game actually,” Steve says, settling properly in the dusty house they’ve holed up in while the others are off scouting three different locations. After several days of watches and recon the two of them been left behind today at ‘base’ to keep an eye. It’s the first time they’ve been truly alone for a long time.

“Like when we play ‘Who are they at home.” Steve explains, thinking of the story game they’d started playing from Steve’s bedroom window, aged eleven when he couldn’t get out of bed - to well into their twenties chilling on the fire-escape or in the park. They used to people watch, taking turns to pick people out and make up stories about them. It began after ‘I spy’ lost it’s attraction when stuck in a bland six foot by seven foot room. “The rules are I say something that’s bothering me, and you play along and say something back - get it off our chests.”

“That sounds like a terrible game.” Bucky retorts. “Games are supposed to be fun.”

“It can be - but -” Steve meets his eye, looks deep into them. “Right, don’t try and tell me that something’s not bothering you about me, about _this._” He motions to his whole body. “It has been from the start, I can tell - and I’m fed up of walking on egg shells around it when you look at me weird--”

“--I don’t look at you weird--” Bucky protests.

“--You do. You said you got a weird feeling the other week, thought we weren’t okay. That I was pissed at you for some reason. So why? Why did you think that? Come on, clear the air.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“_Because no_.”

Steve pokes him in the arm. “You can’t keep saying no forever.”

“And you can’t keep buggin’ me forever. You’re reading too much into it.”

“I really don’t think I am.”

“Of course you don’t.” Bucky says with a roll of his eyes, but the conversation is still quiet and very civil. Bucky’s not walked off yet; so Steve’s already counting it as a win. There’s an amused quirk to his lips instead. “Says the guy who reads into _everything _too much.” He adds matter of factly: “You need to unclench your asshole.”

“You need to_ eat_ my asshole.” Steve retorts immediately. Bucky blurts out a surprised, barked laugh. “Preferably_ after_ you’ve got it all out.”

Bucky laughs for a couple more seconds, then asks, suave: “You say that to all the ladies, do you, Rodgers?”

“I will if it will get you talking.” He replies.

Bucky chuckles to himself, looking down. There’s still laughter in his eyes and a crinkle at the corners, and a small smile on his lips. Steve deliberately came to him on a good day, when his mood is up and easy. It makes Steve happy every time he has one, and sad when he doesn’t, but he’s not above taking advantage of it. Bucky cocks his head and rubs his hand over the back of his hair. He tugs at a few threads; a habit Steve is long used to.

“Blurting it all out like that is not gonna be a good idea.” He says softly, “All that’s gonna’ come out of it is me getting my words mixed up and sayin’ the wrong thing.”

“You won’t.” Steve disagrees, “You’re great with words.”

“Not right now I’m not.” Bucky replies, which is the most self-awareness Steve has heard from him in months. _That that’s come out now must be a good sign, surely,_ Steve thinks, even if it did come out a little sadder. “See look at you right now!” Bucky exclaims, “already reading into it too much.”

Steve schools his face to cover it.

Bucky gives him a knowing look. “I don’t see this game of yours ending any other way than me upsetting you; and I don’t want that.”

“Ah, okay, _there._” Steve says, punctuating it with a finger, “_right there._ What is it that you think is going to upset me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes heavenward. “Oh my god.” He complains, “stop.”

“I’ll stop when you play along. I promise I won’t over think it,” he swears, “but the fact that you just said that means there is something bothering you. My intentions, my judgement, my head, my body, my whatever. Whatever it is just say it - I’ve got some stuff I wanna’ get off my chest too. It’s not just about you.”

Bucky looks away for a second, sucking on his tongue while he thinks. His left leg starts bouncing.

“And there’s no wrong thing you can say.” Steve adds, assuring, “or I can say. It’s part of the game.”

Steve waits him out. Eventually Bucky asks, “Can I veto certain subjects?”

“As long as you don’t veto everything then fine.”

“Okay.” He agrees, and Steve grins. “You start.”

“You’ve got to be honest - right off the bat - and if you or I want to delve further we can.” Bucky nods. Steve goes in harsh and hard for his first question. He’s never been one for beating around the bush. “Do you think I’m weak for not making the hard choice with the prisoners - or wanting to give them a second chance? For worrying about god and sin?”

“No.” Bucky says straight away. “You’ve never been weak.”

He glances quickly between Steve’s eyes and the side of his head, and already Steve is looking at him with a new gaze. He used to be weak; in body, and some said in mind, and yet his friend’s just said so easily: _You’ve never been_\---but Bucky’s never thought of him that way, and yet even so: he’s still surprised by the easy answer._ Is it the truth?_

“I think you’re naive, some - a lot of the time.”

_Okay then, _Steve thinks, _he really is being honest. Good._ Really good; and it makes the first answer strike even deeper, and warmer.

“I guess I’m not exactly objective either,” Bucky allows after a moment, which is another moment of self-awareness Steve wasn’t expecting. “I still don’t think we should trust any one of them. That’s never gonna change - I don’t care how many Erksine’s there are.” Bucky firmly looks him back in the eyes, squeezing one hand into a fist.

“Keep going.” Steve prompts, because there’s more Bucky’s not saying.

“What happened to turns?”

“I’m delving.”

Bucky rolls his eyes skyward again. “Not even a minute in and you’re already breaking the rules of your own game.” He crosses his arms and leans back into the wall, slouching but tense. “I don’t like Erksine. I don’t care if you do. I don’t care that Hydra forced him to work for them. I feel sorry for what you told me happened to his family - but not about him.”

“Why? He gave me this---”

“Body. The abilities. I know. Doesn’t change the fact he experimented on you or was going to anyway on someone else if you hadn't blown him away by being the ever-spectacular you. With or without consent: you don’t experiment on people. You don’t. Sorry not sorry. I don’t like him for that.”

Well, that gives him his next question right there. “Okay then so are yo--”

“Stop. It’s my turn.” Bucky interrupts. “Am I still your favourite, or has Miss Carter kicked me off my podium?”

Steve blinks, but has to laugh; and not only to keep the mood up. It’s a jokingly phrased question; but Steve has a feeling there’s a little more vulnerability in that than Bucky’s willing to admit to. “Not the kind of thing I meant, but okay fine. No.”

“Is she close?”

“Veto.” Bucky pulls a face, so Steve pokes him in the knee and takes the veto back. “No,” he says, “you’re still number one. Are you pissed I took the serum full stop? I’ll say right now I love the fact I can serve my country - and I won’t apologize for that even if you want me to.”

Bucky huffs like he was expecting that one. Unlike that first heart-to-heart in Scotland he seems like he does have the words arranged ready for this question. It’s probably a predictable one.

“Yes and no. Not pissed that you did it, more the reasons why. You’re happy. And _healthy_. I’ve always wanted that for you.” Bucky says, and Steve can tell he means it. “Believe it or not I’m not a fan of the idea of you catching an early grave - and it seemed like that mighta’ happened with your heart the way it was.”

“What reasons?” Steve quickly throws in.

Bucky sighs; levers his knee up and rests his head on his hand. He says quite frankly. “I just wish you’d done it to _live_ and not to run bull-headed into a life or death situation over a point of proving yourself.”

“I didn’t do it for that.”

“Yes you did.” Bucky interjects, “At least a little bit.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe.” Steve admits, “but it more complicated than that.”

“I realize that now.” Bucky replies. “I realized a lot about the old you since this.”

_Old me?_ Steve questions in his head. “Is that what you’ve been--”

“No.” He says before Steve can ask if that’s what it is. “I don’t like it but it’s not as if I didn’t expect it. You’re _healthy _\- that’s the main thing. It kinda’ overrides everything else - and even though Erskine gave you that doesn’t change the fact I’m not gonna’ cheer his memory on of creating another one of you. It’s not that.” His left leg jiggles again. “Were you really unhappy at home? Before?”

“It’s complicated.” Steve replies with a sardonic smile.

“Simplify it.” Bucky rebuts stubbornly. “It’s my turn to delve.”

Steve sighs, “I was…and I wasn’t. It’s…it’s hard to be happy and look to the future when you’ve got in your head that most likely - or you’re certain actually - that you aren’t gonna’ have one. I knew that for sure after that winter. The one---”

“--when we were sixteen.” Bucky interrupts, “you were gonna die. You didn’t.” Steve nods, eyes on his. They’re hard, and he reads, _I made sure you didn’t _in them. He wonders if that’s true, if that’s what happened. He doesn’t remember; but that scent of apple soap - Becca’s hair always smelt of the same - and it wasn’t her hat or her figure sipping coffee he caught sight of in the occasional moment. Like he said, they’ve never talked about it. That night has always just been there, frozen in memory with the rest of the pipes. “I know. You mentioned it the other week. What-- you just, gave up on life then? _Bullshit._ If anything you got worse--”

He stops when Steve holds up a hand. “I didn’t give up so much as_ wise up_, pal. You said it yourself - my ticker wasn’t gonna hold out to forty. Probably not even thirty. It wasn’t. You said it not five minutes ago. I'm lucky I even made it to twenty-five. I nearly went again two more times - like when you didn’t call the priest.”

“_Because you didn’t need one_.”

Steve huffs downwards, lips quirked for a moment. “Okay fine, apparently I didn’t. But I was gonna’ do one day - and I knew that; so I…I sorta’ made a deal with myself to live life as best I could. Get as much in before I snuffed out early - that’s why I agreed to Art School so easily when you pushed it; before you could do it with me, that’s why I was goin’ out protesting and partying with Bertie so much - _why I was fighting so much_. You know, Carpe Diem and all that. Because why not, when it wouldn’t of mattered a decade on. Not unless I made such a racket that I was able to change something for the better - like workers rights, or civil rights or....well, all that jazz. You know.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“I was doin’ my best with what I had - which was a slow, skinny body that would start withering away with one skipped meal. The whole white picket fence dream was never option, cause no dame was gonna take me--”

“You don’t know that. We woulda’ found you someone.”

“A hundred first dates - how many times did I get a second?” Bucky looks away, so Steve answers: “_Three times_. And only one to the third date.” He doesn’t count Peggy - who did see him as he was before, unlike the rest. She’s someone super special though.

“But--”

“--No buts, there isn’t. You can’t--I’m not saying this against you - but you wouldn’t understand. It's not your fault," he says frankly, eyes and voice soft and considerate, "cause' it ain't down anything about _you_ \- you just can't, not unless you lived with the finishing line in sight your whole life too. It's kind of a solo perspective. So when…when the war came and they wouldn’t let me fight - it was one more no, a no I couldn’t take. Why waste all those good lives, throwing away people's futures - bright futures - when I could do something, and it wouldn't have mattered if I died cause' I was going anyway." Bucky's eyes snap back up, then lower down again. "One doc said to me - when he gave me my 4F - that he was savin' my life and just..." His hand scrunches just thinking about it - _because he wasn't saving anything_. "When Erksine explained everything and gave me the chance to change, to change_ it all_ \- no matter the odds it was worth it for me. It's always gonna be worth it. I moved the finish-line, I changed it.”

_ I had control over it for the first time in my life._

That’s one thing he is proud of - he has control over his end - even if he ends under a collapsing building, at least he goes while doing something_ right and just._

Bucky swallows.

“I thoughtI thought you were happy.” His friend says quietly, gaze down, looking sad and a little guilty. “Like I was. At least a little bit.”

“I was.” Steve assures quickly, realizes its been twisted in a way he was worried it could be._ Complicated_, he’d said,_ his head's always been so damn complicated._ He places a hand against Bucky’s forearm, who allows it. "I was." Steve squeezes. “You made it better. _You always have_.”

If he wasn’t as proud - maybe he’d say _I mean it with all my heart, with everything I have. _Because he does. _Bucky's always made everything better. _The sight of his smile sometimes was enough to turn Steve's whole day around - it's why he craves it so much now. Bucky used to hand them out like they were nothing, free of charge to all and everyone; now they cost a good few stiff dollars to encroach out of him.

There’s a good few beats of silence, not awkward; more heavy. Bucky still looks sad, sucking on the side of his cheek. Steve didn’t expect that to come up.

“What else you got?” He asks after a push. _Now who’s avoiding, huh?_ It’s Dugan’s voice, weirdly, that sounds in his head.

“You stress me out everyday.” Bucky admits, freely, casually, after a deep breath. He rallies under what Steve’s just told him. “You’re a reckless piece of shit.”

“Yep.” Steve agrees wholeheartedly.

“I thought you were worse ‘cause of the serum - but you’re not. It’s just the situation.” He then says, like he’s informing Steve of his own personality: “you’re worse when I’m with you. You always have been because it’s more fun with a friend by your side shootin’ the shits than without. Especially when I’m telling you not to do something.”

“That’s not exactly true.” He doesn’t think - _does he? _He’s always tried to fight on his own but he’s also always kind of enjoyed Bucky getting on at him after for it. _Huh, maybe it is?_

He also can’t deny he loves doing stupid-as-hell antics side by side with him, a kindred spirit; like jumping off piers, and out of planes, and sledging down eighty-five degree angle streets and nearly braining himself by running into a parked car exhaust. Bucky ran into the side of one, bounced off and finished in a glorious trash can collision - and then they both had to run when the owners came out hollering. That’s not something Bucky can deny either considering a lot of that stuff was his idea; he’s always been reckless in a different way to Steve - loose with his fun if not his life. It’s the opposite now.

Even so he stands by his point; because in that way Bucky can be just as bad. “You didn’t say no half the time, so that’s a bit of bullcrap right there.” Bucky gives him a put out glare so Steve admits, “I am worse when I’m with you - but so are you.”

His friend cants a shoulder after a moment, accepting that.

“I was ready to kill you in Czechoslovakia.” Bucky adds onto it, “You were supposed to wait twenty minutes.”

“Didn’t I?” Steve asks innocently.

“You know full well you didn’t.” Bucky retorts right back. “I was imagining very detailed, very explicit ways of murdering you; they involved your balls in a very tight vice. Popping out your eyes was another particularly inspired one.”

Steve snorts, and can’t help the laughter that comes out as he can very well imagine it. In all honesty he knew that then in Czechoslovakia when he did it.

“I nearly fell of the mountain I was so panicked trying to get up.”

“Sorry.” Steve says easily, voice easy and small smile on his face, “I’ll be sure to leave it fifteen minutes next time.”

“This isn’t a joke.” Bucky half-snaps, which is the first time either of them have gained a tone or raised their voice from casually truthful. “You’re impossible.” He mutters, making himself cool off. Steve gives him a moment, grateful he’s sticking this out and still trying.

He nods at Steve to go when he’s ready, not bothering to wait for an actual apology seeing as Steve is probably never going to give one.

Steve begins again.

“You’re jealous of me.”

(At some point it’s gone from questions to accusations, but the game still works and tempers are still calm.)

“Sometimes. A bit. Not for the reasons, or in the way you think.” He answers, and then it’s his turn again. “How long are you going to keep doing this? Serving? After the war?”

“I don’t know.” Steve offers honestly. “As long as they need me. However long it takes until everyone’s free. That doesn’t mean_ you _have to.” He adds, “if you want to go home---”

“I don’t.” Bucky says, “and veto to that. I just wanted a honest answer - a ball park. Is it still my turn?”

“No. Mine.” Steve answers, respecting the diversion. “It pisses me off when you’re harsh with Peg--Agent Carter all the time-- like seriously---”

“Right.” Bucky says, lowering his leg and crossing his arms. “Be nice to the lady who backed me into a corner with a doctor and a tray full of needles, and then interrogated me for good measure - no thanks. I’m great where I am.”

“She’s not like that, she’s--”

“She’s not Hydra.” He cuts Steve off, voice flatter than Steve would like it. “Yeah, you keep saying that. Doesn’t change how I feel.”

“She was just doing her job, Buck.” Steve says gently. “I want you to get on. I like her, and I know you know that more than anyone else. I don’t want the two of you at odds all the time. But…” He sighs, and finishes with: “it’s important to me that you try. Will you?”

Bucky watches him for a moment. “Fine. I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” Steve says sincerely. “Your turn.”

He looks upwards as he thinks. Eventually Bucky comes out with: “It really pisses me off that you went to Washington without me.”

_Wow, isn’t that a blast from the past._ Steve can feel the smear of a nosebleed on his top lip from when they made the agreement. Washington and the Grand Canyon - he’d forgotten honestly.

“You broke our pact,” Bucky continues, “and it’s stupid and petty - but it bothers me.”

“I’m pissed off that you won’t talk to me about everything that’s going on with you.” He offers.

“War is what's going on. I’m pissed off that you keep bugging me about it.”

“It could help if you talked - the whole point of the game is to clear the--”

“Veto.”

“What?”

“Veto.” Bucky says. “Off limits.”

“Seriously? Buck--”

“I said veto, Steve.” He repeats a third time, voice quiet but hard. Steve goes to pull a face, unhappy with that and about to push. Bucky says: “I’m playing with you; and it is good to get some of it off my chest. You were right. But not that. My body, my decision. Veto, or I walk off.”

He huffs tiredly, unhappy with it, but… “Okay…”

He does it to get Bucky’s haunches to loose the tension they’ve gained. He doesn't want to ruin this. There’s more time for that later. They’ll be another, more appropriate moment - a moment where he can truly focus on _just_ that, and not the million other questions that are getting asked and answered.

_How many times are you going to say that to yourself?_

“My body then.” He says instead, “back to my original point. What’s the problem?”

“Your freckles are gone.”

Steve blinks, bewildered again at this sudden new turn. “Excuse me? What?”

“Your freckles. You had a clump of them on your lower back. Used to look like a open umbrella - they’re gone. I noticed it in Scotland - and the others on your leg are gone too.”

“So…?”

“It bothers me.”

“Why?”

“It’s _weird._” Bucky tells him. “They were a part of you and now they’re gone. I don’t know what else went with them.”

Steve leans back, taking_ that_ in. His freckles are gone. His freckles are gone and Bucky noticed; felt perturbed the same way Steve did when he noticed in the mirror he was now tall enough for. Steve, outside of his intense frustrations with his body has never really been overly self-conscious of it - not for years - otherwise he never would have left the apartment and _lived_; which was the whole point. The _whole thing_ he wanted in his very early twenties was to do what he wanted to do and have as much of a life as he was able to have before the final bout of pneumonia got him. It’s why he loved, and still does love, getting his blood up; why he’s always been such a reckless motherfucker: determination, morals and spite to all those who told him he couldn’t.

It was different after serum. After the serum a part of him felt ashamed - in that he had this body and he still wasn’t satisfied - but it was less about how big his muscles were - more that he stuck out where before he used to fly under the radar. Or how he didn’t know how to move, or act, or control it. Or how to be this new person who should be confident in his own skin when yet, it didn’t feel like he was_ wearing_ his own skin in the beginning. He wonders sometimes if the Red Skull felt, or feels, the same way - if he still ‘felt’ anymore - which surely he did.

Or the fact that the serum had gotten rid of ‘impurities’ that Steve didn’t even realize were impurities before - and if it took them away when gave the rest - _what did that mean?_ He still doesn’t entirely know. He’s gotten used to it though; and learnt how to move, how to make himself be heard with his new height, how to control it, how to be confident the way he always wanted to be.

Bucky bites his lip - “I guess a part of me was, and is, scared that I don’t know you anymore.”

“You know me better than anyone.” Steve replies.

“I don’t.” Bucky shakes his head. “Not anymore. Everyone else seems to know you better. You don’t know me anymore either. I’m different.”

“From my point of view; you do. And you’re different? So what? So am I - people grow, people change. They change all the time. Not all of it is the serum.”

“You’re not a bad different.” Bucky throws out carelessly.

“_Neither are you_.” He says very clearly and very pointedly back. Bucky huffs, smiling a little. He doesn’t say anything but his posture says ‘who are you kidding, Steve’. He’s about to repeat himself, ready to beat it into Bucky’s thick skull until it sinks in and holds when Bucky says:

“I’ll get - am getting used to it - used to you - you just gotta' give me more than a minute to get my head around it.”

“It’s been two - nearly three months.”

“I’m a slow learner.”

“You have never once, in our entire lives, been a slow learner Bucky Barnes.”

“Give me another half month then.” He says, “If I’m not over it by then you have permission to shake me until I do.”

“That a promise?” Bucky shakes his hand as a deal. “Okay, “ Steve says, “is there anything I can do to make the half-month easier and help it along?”

“Nah,” Bucky says easily, “unless you want to let me give you a noogie. I can’t do that anymore.”

Steve laughs. “You can’t can, you?” He realizes; he’s too tall now for Bucky to do it so easily - which is definitely another perk to the serum.

“I can’t.” Bucky agrees. “I cry every night about it.” He adds with an almost, but not entirely straight face.

“That’s_ is_ a shame.” Steve replies, sarcastic as anything. “The disaster of the century that.”

“I don’t know how I cope without that weekly tradition; it just - I don’t know how to say it Steve - it utterly _haunts_ me.”

“I’ll bet.” He grins now, “I could help your emotional state by taking one for the team; or - I could do this.”

In a flash he’s on Bucky, and has him round the shoulders; grinding his knuckles into the center of his head. “Ow ow ow, you little - big shit.” Bucky growls, laughing; trying to fight him off. He struggles and there’s a clatter, but Steve holds him firm, grinning and does it again and again so he can’t duck out of it. Bucky tries to go for _Steve’s_ head, who dodges with a “Nice try but no dice, jerkoff.”

The door swings open. Monty sighs with resignation when he sees them, returning with firewood; Dugan behind him, who just laughs at the state of them. They’re still going.

“And these men are supposed to be professional soldiers.” He shakes his head. “Absolutely abysmal, Captain.”

Steve clears his throat, embarrassed at being caught. He slackens up slightly, but only enough for Bucky to half wrestle himself free. The back of his neck heats up a little; still getting used to straight-laced British humour - and Monty’s brand in particular. He can’t quite tell sometimes. “Apologies.” He allows, only for the fact they’ve been caught in a rather unprofessional and comprising position, but not for their fun.

“You should be,” Falsworth says. “That’s terrible technique. You do it like_ this_ -” and with that Steve’s grinning like the Cheshire cat, holding Bucky down as Falsworth finishes the job with _proper technique._

“Yea--yeah--ow, okay okay! I give up, are you done?”

“Oh I don’t know, I still think I need some practice.”

“No Steve, no.” Bucky splutters, laughing, but ever so slightly more alarmed. “I mean, can you be done?”

Steve realizes he’s got Bucky’s hands trapped at his sides - he releases them the rest of the way sharply. He keeps a longer eye as Monty also backs off, laughing - until Steve’s sure. _He’s okay. _

“Others should be back from recon in a hour Cap.” Falsworth says, “Morita flashed us on the way back.”

“Good good. Lets stay camped here for tonight. It’s pretty secure.”

“You gonna’ help me clean this up?” Bucky asks as Monty drags Dugan’s still laughing ass off the floor. He gestures to all the pieces of his rifle which have been scattered or tangled in the blanket they were laid out on in the double scuffle.

“Only to make sure you don’t cry yourself to sleep.” He says, and starts straightening out the blanket to help organize.

“I remember a time when you used to hate bullies,” Bucky says mildly, “instead of being one.”

“Eat my asshole.” He says in return to make Bucky laugh again.

He chuckles to himself, mouth a wide grin, eyes moving across the sheet as Steve helps lay out the pieces again. “It’ll probably taste like rousing American patriotism, so I’ll give it a miss.”

“One day they’ll be a day when you don’t have a witty comeback ready, you know? I wait for that day.”

“I’m sure you do.” Bucky replies just as mildly, moving the pieces one by one. Steve crouches easily back down to his side and does the same. It’s quiet and peaceful in the house they’ve camped in - long ago stripped bare by Nazi soldiers - as Monty and Dugan prepare the old stove with firewood. They’d covered the chimney up this morning to lessen the smoke, and they’ll be here for a couple more days. There’s no pre-ordinated recon on this one unless they do it themselves - several small Hydra outposts.

It’s a comfortable working silence as Bucky reorganizes the other squad’s sidearms he was also doing maintenance on, and leaves Steve to organize his rifle pieces. Steve blissfully ignores how Bucky moves and corrects a third of the pieces he replaces, likely without noticing, fingers deftly twisting them until they’re perfectly straight and separated by measured spaces. He goes back to his own, switching back and forth obliviously. They’re small alterations; as Steve’s rather used to the procedure having helped Bucky in his tradition before to try and get closer to him; but it’s enough to notice even if Bucky doesn’t.

It’s not a big thing.

Bucky likes order now when he can get it, it’s hardly Steve’s right to criticize or denounce him for it after everything that’s happened. He used to organize Steve’s medicines in order or category in their bathroom cabinet too; in a line; turned out so their labels were easily visible. Steve used to joke that _he_ was the grocers boy, not Bucky, so if anyone should be attached to the automatic labels-turned-out procedure it should be him.

_“What?” Bucky would say in confusion, oblivious. “I just don’t want you accidentally taking too much of the wrong one. They look the same, they’re easy to mix up.”_

_“Uh-huh.” Steve would say doubtfully with a raised eyebrow and a unbelieving grin._

_“What?” Bucky would say again, defensively laughing._

_“Nothing.” Steve would say, smiling to himself as he thought, you’re so good to me._

It’s a little more than the bathroom cabinet now, but Steve doesn’t begrudge him.

They finish the organization and Bucky pauses, frowning.

“You were on the hammer.” Steve reminds him.

He nods, picks up the rag and hammer again - and points Steve to the parts of Dugan’s sidearm he hasn’t gotten round to yet. Steve gets started with the spare rag; enjoying the easy motions as he talks through what they know, what they don’t, and general things to the others over his shoulder. He sees the point of the tradition easily. it’s simple, and quiet and calming. Bucky’s silent for a couple of minutes and Steve worries a little that his ‘game’ has put a downer on Bucky’s good mood, but its not long after that he’s back to cracking jokes and ripping out comments pointed enough to rival Monty’s in sarcasm.

A lot’s been said, a good chunk of it negative in nature, but he feels lighter; and can see Bucky does too. He promised he wouldn’t over-think it; so he’s not; and after all of that Bucky didn’t mix his words up and upset Steve either. He does need to cut himself some slack though, the way he always used to tell Steve to at home. Another reversal; but just one he has to put just as much effort into equaling out as Bucky would for him.

He’ll get him on the vetos later; and he’ll hold him to his Peggy promise - but not today. Today is a good day.

The others arrive at different doorways at separate times; back from their recon, and Steve greets them; letting them know there’s hot coffee waiting for them if they’re craving. Most of them are - and they unpack and hum in pleasure as Steve and Bucky finish up the maintenance, and take apart a couple of the returning firearms while they’re at it before congregating in their usual circle to go over the recon.

The boys are finishing their cups as he and Bucky put the final clicks into place - and then he smears a few finger-fulls of oil on his fingers. He catches Bucky’s hand and shakes it, twisting his palm sideways and up - their old handshake. The oil smears up and across his palm before he can complain.

“It’s not a consecrated blood pact like the last one - but it still counts.” He says. “When we go home I’m taking you to the Grand Canyon.”

Bucky looks down then up, lips quirking in a smile. He squeezes Steve’s hand, an agreement.

. . .

_The beginning of the Covenant of David and Jonathan starts in the Book of Samuel, with the ascent of David to power. It goes likes this:_

_In the kingdom of Saul in Gilboa, the young David slays the giant Goliath with a lone stone from his sling in single combat after forty days and eighty lost champions, in the Valley of Elah. David’s victory begins a rout of the Philistines, who are driven back to Gath - and David is brought to King Saul still holding Goliath’s severed head, and invited into his circle._

_ Jonathan, the eldest son of Saul has also been fighting the Philistines, and on meeting, the two take an immediate liking to each other. They form a covenant of friendship to last until the end of their days, always loyal and always faithful - no matter the deadly turns of King Saul’s moods._

_Samuel says: ‘_ _Now it came about when he had finished speaking to Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as himself. Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was on him and gave it to David, with his armor, including his sword and his bow and his belt. So David went out wherever Saul sent him, and prospered; and Saul set him over the men of war._

. . .

David and Goliath is a tale of conquest by an underdog; a contest where a smaller, weaker opponent faces a much bigger, stronger adversary. You’d have to be a fool to not understand why Steve likes this tale best, or with what it leads to; the friendship of a Prince to a lowly Shepherd.

David was a musician before he was a solider, and then a King, and Steve was an artist - and his young mind found something of a bond between them. He used to dream that one day he would best the bigger, stronger adversaries as David did - and he would return to the school-yard well-liked and admired for disposing of the worst bullies. He built himself a sling and everything.

He’d also dreamed that when he did that, when he conquered - he’d find friends, or just one - enamoured with his success._ He’d be okay with just one,_ he used to tell himself,_ more would be best but one would be great too. _

He never much bested the bullies in single combat, but he did in dual combat; and so Steve’s story became David’s story just reversed, and he found his Jonathan before he defeated his Goliath, and like David that friendship has lasted for years, and will continue to.

_Washington and the Grand Canyon, it’s sort of like a covenant, _Steve thinks,_ a covenant to last until the end of their days, always loyal and always faithful._

. . .

When Peggy left them in Belgium, she left them with paperwork and what essentially equated to a free pass. Any Allied base within Europe; American, British, Canadian, and potentially Russian; once flashed, is to allow them entry. They also have another one for neutral border crosses, and Steve has it ready just in case they need to use it to cross through the armed-neutral Switzerland. Outside of the normal crossings the borders are still very much open aside from twelve border patrol divisions, as the country has to show they’re being demonstrably “neutral” to the Nazis. Outside of the Limmat Line along the river there’s no fences, and rarely any kind of marker to tell you what country you’re in, only sporadically placed stones to mark the border. The German’s mill along that line in the day-times, who Steve witnesses cursing out the locals from the other side of the line, shouting “we’ll come for you next!”

They cross the stones at night in the middle of darkness in a field; and pass by the remnants of a crashed American plane veered just into the border. It’s not surprising, and it’s not the first time he’s heard of pilots and airmen deliberately steering into Swiss airspace when a crash was imminent; as internment by Swiss authorities was preferable to German prison camps. He wonders what attack that’s from - if maybe it’s the one that buried him under a building.

They don’t need the pass; and slip through to a nearby town - Switzerland is of considerable interest to all parties involved as a scene for diplomacy, espionage, commerce and as a safe haven for refugees. There’s rumour that Peggy may be here.

There’s also a rumour that while the Germans have not encroached on the Swiss border - Hydra have; and they’ve overtaken a town just South of the Austrian-German-Swiss triangle, near St. Gallen. Steve can’t see any discernible reasoning; but supposedly it’s gone under Swiss authority radar, all transport and radio lines destroyed, and they’ve begun to close their way around another town. The Swiss there are fighting back; all trained, armed and ready to call upon as a national militia - every fit man between eighteen and thirty plus national service women ready to go to war at a moments notice; armed in their own homes. The rest just don’t know they’ve been attacked - Hydra are tricky like that.

They found order records at the two Hydra outposts they destroyed - while the rest was hidden under two different codes, stored within a weapons cache - dated only a week before.

He delays the orders to recon the Marignal line, they still have time until the end of the month, and instead re-prioritises.

“It never stops.” One of them grumbles behind him, yawning.

“Nope.” He replies.

They move in.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter of Weird Great Depression food! Boy, did this chapter surprise me with the word-count when I looked! Did I go overboard - I'm not too sure. You tell me? Hope you enjoyed it, and thank you for all the wonderful comments on the last chapter, from original readers and new readers. They are my life-blood in this time where I've been without a job to keep me occupied.
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> PRUNE PUDDING - Prunes were easy to store, widely available, and much less expensive than other fruits, while providing needed nutrients to the Depression-era diet: the fruit is packed with fibre and supplies almost one-third of your daily needs for Vitamin K. It was made famous when First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt persuaded her husband to serve it to White House guests.
> 
> PEANUT BUTTER AND MAYO SANDWICH - As Garden Gun reports, the peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich took hold of America in the 1930s, during the peak of the Depression. Every household had the two staple items — mayo and peanut butter — and the sour, nutty, concoction was filled with enough protein and provided enough sustenance to keep families going.
> 
> MULLIGAN’S SOUP - the result of tossing in the pot all that the maker has to feed the belly, mostly made by the homeless population. The stew is certainly not an ordinary dish of the tough time! Usually also made using stolen onions, potatoes, corn, mixed scavenged greens, and some navy beans stored in pocket or wallet for months. Here are extra some more secret ingredients that you cannot imagine: A bit of lint, sawdust and Bull Durham tobacco for making the broth interesting. Yuck.
> 
> DRINKING KETCHUP - In the late 19th century it was a widespread belief that tomatoes cured a mirage of illnesses - from indigestion to literally everything - tomato pills and drinking ketchup were encouraged. By Steve and Bucky 's time it was outdated - but it was too funny imaging small Steve drinking ketchup from bottle that I decided adapting the timescale was perfectly acceptable.
> 
> LSNR - 1930's Civil Rights Movement. The League of Struggle for Negro Rights was the primary civil rights organization of the American Communist Party in mid 1930's.
> 
> HOWARD UNIVERSITY - Howard University (Howard or simply HU) is a private, federally chartered historically black university (HBCU) in Washington, D.C..
> 
> ST STEPHAN - First martyr of Christianity. Writing in the fic is very close to how it's told in the bible.
> 
> DAVID/JONATHAN/GOLIATH - Told in the fic. Jonathan and David are heroes of Israel, and are known for their life-long friendship. Jonathan was a man of utmost courage, loyalty, wisdom, and honour. Born with the potential to be one of Israel’s greatest kings, he knew God had anointed David to the throne instead. Regrettably, he was torn between love and devotion to his father, the king, and faithfulness to his beloved friend, David. Although seriously tested, he managed to stay loyal to his father while still recognizing that God had chosen David. Jonathan’s integrity has earned him a high place of honour in the hall of biblical heroes. There were some interpretations that their relationship was more than platonic - you decide? Similarities - I see some!


	26. PART 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks: we are keeping Death away.

Once again we have some audio to listen to if you so choose, which is mentioned in the text.

CHOPIN, Nocturne in C# Minor - [MUSIC LINK](https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=chopin++NOCTURNE+IN+C+MONOR&&view=detail&mid=91248CC1B287A176B9F191248CC1B287A176B9F1&&FORM=VRDGAR)

* * *

BUCKY

_He’s strapped to a gurney, green lights flicker overhead, wheels rattle. The leather at his wrists won’t yield._

_Zola’s speaking as he walks, brisk German Bucky back then only half-understands.” …white male, American, twenty four years old--”_

_Wheels squeak, Bucky blinks - the world blurs with the ceiling. He opens his eyes - immense domed lights on long mechanical necks overhead. When they flare to life they’re so bright he nearly vomits, his breath keens. _

_“Sergeant Barnes,” says Zola, in heavily accented English, “you should rejoice, you are part of a beautiful future.” _

_There’s a needle in his hand, one that looks big enough for a horse._

_ “Relax. This one will make you happy.”_

_It enters the joint of his shoulder - and keeps going. The light glints off Zola’s glasses._

** _ _ **

**_**. . .** _ **

** _ _ **

The thing is, he approves of Peggy Carter.

He approves of her viciously; nearly wholeheartedly; like gripping down hard on rose thorns; and the more you bleed - the more you feed it. The tighter you hold, the brighter the flower petals; ever vivid. He thinks he’d approve of her in any circumstances - she’s definitely the first person he’s ever met who might be genuinely worthy of Steve - but as it is - he can approve and push her towards his friend without having to like her himself. He feels like even if he wanted to like her, the fractured fucked up ice-box that is his head won’t let him.

The thing _is_; from what he knows of her, from what he’s seen her do he_ does like her_; he certainly thinks he understands her to a point. Being surrounded by mostly women for most of your life opens your eyes; but he just can’t turn off the part of his brain that sees her across the debrief table from him. He can’t see past her face in-between the flashes of a camera; and how her red lipstick was the same colour as his blood as they took it out of him.

He wants to throw it; everything - the blood, the three pints of his follow-up vomit, the fear, the terror, the resignation - at Steve’s head and scream at him; _you get past it!_

He promised he’d try though, and he’s never been one to break his promises.

. . .

Bucky’s in the bell-tower of the town they’ve liberated, at his rifle, when Peggy Carter finds him. The others seem to be celebrating with found booze and willing Swiss women, who have led several into their apartments for tea or booze or ‘other things’ as thanks - but he can’t push past the idea of the enemy arriving unbidden when no one’s prepared. So here he is, on high watch, ready to shoot and give them a head-start if he needs to. One of the locals is playing _Chopin - Nocturne_ in C# minor he thinks, on a violin in the square below him; people are dancing, slow and soft.

He hears footsteps coming up the spiral stairs thinking it’s Steve at first, come to wrestle him down off his probably paranoid perch when they already have a perimeter set up by the Swiss Border guard; then realizes the steps are lighter. Steve can move light and silent, but it’s a heavy-weighted light and these are _light light_. It’s almost as though the faint sounds he can hear _are_ deliberate, made to be heard. The door squeals on it’s hinges a little as she opens it when he looks over his shoulder. The door sends up a puff of dust. Carter frowns at the cloud that envelopes her, but she doesn’t cough, just smooths it off her clothes and closes the door behind her with a silence it didn’t have on opening.

She doesn’t walk or stride over, instead she gets down on her knees and crawls across the floor so she doesn’t give away his position.

“If you’re looking for a make-out spot this one’s taken.” He says, bad-natured. “So you can tell the resident Captain of the Free People to find somewhere else when he follows you up.”

She bristles as she moves, like he knew she would, but seems to swallow it down. “He’s busy elsewhere - so he won’t be coming at all - may I?” She asks, elbows level with his hip before moving into the spot next to him.

“Highly doubt there’s any way for me to stop you doing what you want, so. Like I couldn’t sto--”

“--I would like for us to have a conversation.”

He snorts abruptly, then makes an educated guess. “He have the _‘be friends pretty please’_ talk with you too, huh?” The look on Carter’s face when he glances at her says yes. “Predictable punk. Divide, conquer, and bring together - I see his game.”

“He means well.”

“Oh, I know he does.” Bucky says mildly without looking at her. He follows the path of the barkeep as he jogs across the square to press a stein of beer into Dernier’s hand. “Doesn’t mean he knows best, though.”

“I’d say it would be best for us to get on enough to operate smoothly in the field.”

“I know how to operate smooth, Carter. If you give me an order I’ll follow it - you don’t have to worry about that.”

She doesn’t say ‘thank you’ or ‘I’m glad to hear it’. She just says, “Good.” She’s got balls in the everyday too, he’ll give her that. “Even so - with you, and me - and Steve. It’s not a competition.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it. You did.”

The sky is flat slate grey, just hazy enough for the sun to glare through. He wonders how long they have to hold their position here - he’d like to leave soon. Three girls approached him earlier before he could escape up here to the bell. Carter’s the fourth. She rolls her eyes.

“You have a problem with me.” Carter says. “I have a problem with your attitude and yet - I’m here,” she says, “because…_no bollocks_, I’m not going to dance around it.” She says suddenly, shaking her head and her entire probably prepared speech off. “He needs you. And I need you, and you need me - in that, we both need someone else who’s worrying about him all the time; which I find myself doing. It’s been obvious from the start that it’s the same for you.”

“Okay.” Bucky says flatly.

“Okay.” She repeats back at him. “I don’t know you, Sergeant Barnes, and you don’t know me, but I for one am glad you’re with him. Because none of us are going to survive this bloody war if we don’t do it together.”

He scoffs a laugh, not shifting in his conviction. “Let me guess, we’re stronger together than apart.”

“That’s the consensus, yes.”

“Geez, Carter,” he says, “at least try to be original. Churchill already took that line in Tehran.”

“I don’t need to be original when it’s a tried and tested approach.” She replies smoothly, then opens her mouth and stops short. She looks at him not looking at her, keeping his eye trained in the scope. She purses her lips, drawing a breath to either calm or centre herself. She’s probably aggravated by him. He would be. Still doesn’t mean he’s going to stop.

_It’s important to me that you try_, Steve says in one ear; the shade in the other says, _you’re being a class-act dickhead James. _

_Shut up_, he says to both, rubbing the tiredness from his free eye with one hand. He thought it was supposed to be an angel and a devil on his shoulder - not_ two_ irritating angels. He wonders if he’s tired enough to sleep through tonight. Carter turns away from him to squint at the sky. Somewhere far off, pigeons swoop over a rooftop, and settle there again.

“I know you’ve suffered--”

“--I don’t want to talk about it.”

She looks at him shrewdly, then nods. “Entirely fair enough - more than understandable. I don’t like to relive my worst memories either - I’m also not one to apologize for pushing a line, and I won’t.” She adds on matter-of-factly. “I only mean that _that_ wasn’t a line I was trying to push--”

“--You’re talking more than I thought you would.” He interrupts.

“I tend to when I’m nervous.” She reveals.

It’s probably an effort to get him to open up to her, if she does it for him. A psychological game; reverse psychology; he’s not going to fall for it. He’s not going down that hole to end to all twisted up. Girls can be sneaky like that - he should know - there’s four in his immediate family.

He scoffs, “why the hell’d you be nervous chattin’ to me?” _I’m no one._

“Because you’re important to Steve, and this conversation is important to him even if he doesn’t know it’s happening right now.”

“He doesn’t?”

“This is between you and me, he doesn’t need to be looking in - one because of obvious reasons - and two - in case it goes badly.”

“It’s going badly.” Bucky informs her, “hate to break it to you.”

She very obviously ignores him, though it’s clear she was hoping for more than unhelpful snide comments; like she did when the she tried to ‘bond’ in Belgium that time last month.

“A lots happened in the last two months for you - so that’s the only reason I’m allowing comments like your first to me. I know you’ve suffered,” she repeats, voice saying this time she’ll continue whether he likes it or not, and he will _not _interrupt her. Bucky nudges his body a few inches away. “--more than you want Steve to see - it’s probably bone-headed - but all of us can be sometimes. It’s also_ partly_ \- admirable as I can see you are trying to protect him from the worst of it. He’d move mountains for you, if you asked.”

_Ditto._ “Then you know why I don’t ask.”

“And I,” it seems hard for her, “apologize if my job made it worse.”

He suppresses a smirk, “but not for doing it. Funnily enough that concept sounds very familiar.”

“He doesn’t like to apologize either, does he?” Carter asks curiously.

“You’d think he was having a hernia any time he tries.” Bucky offers, “I don’t know what you’re trying to say or offer here Carter, if it’s not a pointless apology - cause that won’t help.”

She hums, “I wondered if it would or not, but glad that’s clear.” _Because you weren’t getting one._ She then snorts at the first part, as if the meaning has just occurred to her; then clears her throat, stifling her smile. She looks through her own binoculars at and between the buildings.

“I’m not offering anything. I’m asking, very selfishly I might add, that you - get over whatever it is so we can - share the load.”

“On what?” Bucky blusters, finally taking the eye out of the scope to look at her. “Share the load on what?”

“On protecting him. Becoming a friend or at the very least friendly with each other is not going to happen immediately. I understand that - but, I have always been one for agreements; and I believe you may be that sort of man too. Think of it like - a deal.”

“A deal.” It’s the most demented speech he’s heard in a while, with a lot of dancing round it even if Carter said bollocks to that. “You want to share? Watch out for him together.”

She nods graciously. “It’s a start. And something I find we can easily both agree to.”

“You’re crazy.” He tells her.

“Yes.” She agrees almost instantly. He’s startled into a laugh.

“Funny. He replied the exact same way when I called him a reckless asshole.” The infamous ‘he’ doesn’t need to be named.

“He _is _a reckless asshole.” Carter further agrees, the first time he’s heard her probably swear. “It’s been said so are you.”

He shrugs in response; wondering what Steve or the others have told her about him - _about the way he used to talk talk talk?_ Or maybe the stupid shit he did at home and on the front; like starting a fight with an entire generation of a family over a dog; or swinging a bar at a Hydra guard’s special stuff while knowing he was packing.

She and Steve make a terrifying pair. He’s somehow signing onto to look out for the _both _of them.

“I’m scared.” He suddenly says, “all the time.” Somehow suddenly he doesn’t mind admitting that to her. The same way in that he realizes she’s right in that he can handle a professional deal right now - but not friendship. Not yet. Maybe her reverse psychology has worked after all.

Carter says, again: “yes.”

“I’m - I can’t look after him like I used to. The rules changed. All of them - too many to catch.”

“I understand.”

_A deal it is._ He frees his hand from it’s place on the barrel, lifts it over the gun to her; offering. “Will you help me?”

She takes his hand; and it’s a formal shake. There’s no blood or gun oil smearing their hands together, but its no less consecrated. “You have yourself a deal, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Agent Carter.” He agrees. Her grip is firm. He finds his mouth curling into an unexpected crooked smile. “Bucky,” he corrects, the first allowance and first bit of slack he’s ever given her. “--if we’re gonna’ be - partners, and all.”

“Partners. I like that.” Her lipstick that she’s wearing today is the same deep red. It stands out when she smiles against the white of her teeth. It’s the first time he looks at it and doesn’t see his blood in a vial. “You may call me Peggy.”

. . .

“There you are,” Steve says, footsteps coming up the stairs and opening the door. He acts like he’s come across Bucky by accident; like he didn’t know where he was - except for the fact Bucky saw Carter pointing up to the muzzle of his gun to Steve about half an hour ago when he’d gotten the courage up to ask if she’d seen him. Bucky allows the deception for what it is. “I’ve been looking for you. Thought you’d be with the others or - maybe…with someone else.”

“Nah.” Bucky says, “wasn’t feeling it.”

“How about now?” Steve asks in the doorway. “You wanna’ come down?”

Bucky thinks for a couple of seconds. “Nope. I’m good up here.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well in that case,” Steve comes fully into the room, unveiling a stein of beer. “Here’s some refreshment for all your top-notch surveillance.”

“Well,_ thank you_ good sir.” Bucky mocks, and Steve laughs, settling down with his back to the wall beside him; stein between them. He looks at Bucky still on his stomach, eye back in his scope.

“Anything interesting?”

“Unless you count Jim crashing and burning with a very pretty brunette - not really.” Bucky says, then offers, “there’s a very irritating pigeon nested somewhere up here I’m very tempted to shoot if it doesn’t shut up. But I’ve yet to work out where exactly it is.”

“Oh.” Steve says, smiling a little. He cocks his head to listen to the various coo-choos. There’s a very particular aggravating one - louder than the others. “Is that the--”

“Yes.” Bucky half-growls.

“It’s coming from there.”

“Where?”

Steve points, pining it down. As if it realizes it’s been noticed the pigeon silences itself as Bucky rolls onto his side to see. “Hm. I’ll give it one more chance.” He decides, “and then it’s getting a bullet.”

He leans over to take a mouthful of beer and froth, giving him a moustache. Steve huffs with laughter, a simple pleasure in a not so simple afternoon. He passes it over to Steve; who takes a slightly larger and longer sip; and settles back against the stone. Bucky returns his eye to his scope.

“How long have you been up here?”

“A while. How’s the below?”

“Fairly happy - you know, for all the destruction.”

“You could just say happy. We’re sticking to the bright-side remember.”

“Fairly happy then.” Steve allows, then notes. “Dugan’s done well for himself. He’s been gone for nearly as long as you disappeared.”

“Maybe the moustache has actually done something for him after all.”

“Ha. Yeah, maybe.”

The rooftop falls into an almost silence, the violin notes of a _Vitali_ solo drift up to their level faintly, as does the low hum of chatter below. There’s not many people out other than the soldiers, but it’s more than usual; and the air of a gentle party is still about. The dusty sun has sunk lower, the shadows have grown longer; but the gas lanterns have been lit in the square to keep the light up and the warmth in; though most are still sporting coats or double layers. Even though Bucky is ready to leave this place he can admit it’s a nice atmosphere. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, but it’s not an intense gaze - it’s just - there.

Dernier and Jones are finishing up a pint together by the fountain, sat on the wall chatting. A shop owner is sipping on his own as he and his wife sweep the streets of rubble and dust.

“I don’t know how you do this.”

“Do what?” Bucky asks, the buried body of a Hydra solider in his cross-hairs. He can see a lone arm, leg and splash of hair and blood. He keeps going back to him the more uncovered he’s become throughout the evening as those on duty clear it. The guy’s still not moving - he’s still dead.

“Just sit like this for so long, focusing on one detail at a time.”

“It’s called patience Steve; something _shockingly,_ you are not known to have.”

“Hilarious.” Steve mirrors sarcastically. “I mean; I find it easier to focus on the whole picture - on everything - narrowing my vision like that and keeping focus is something I think I’d find trouble with.”

Bucky shrugs, not moving his vision. “Just the way you’re built I guess - I get exhausted being on edge and aware of everything all the time like you are so…”

“Yeah, fair enough.”

“No hang on,” Something just occurs to Bucky. “What about your drawings? You focus on details then.”

“Art’s different - yeah you focus on detail - but you won’t be doing that detail for four hours straight and - you always have the finished picture in your head. You know what you’re working to.”

Bucky hums, “I can see that.”

“Time passes quickly cause your actually doing something physical. Plus, if you need to pee you can just get up and go. Have you had to pee in a cup yet?”

“Not yet. The pee is brewing though - that beer’s not gonna’ help. Probably never gonna’ end; I’ll be pissin’ forever.”

Steve huffs at the dramatics, “so glad I asked that question.”

They verge into silence again, the sun sinks lower. Steve takes a few more sips; then nudges Bucky so he drinks some before Steve drinks it all.

“You don’t have to stay up here just cause I’m here you know.” Bucky says, “go enjoy yourself down there for a hot minute, god knows you don’t get enough fun in your life as is. Carter’s down there - somewhere.”

“I know.” Steve says, “I have done for a bit; and - I don’t mind it up here. It’s actually kinda’ - peaceful.”

When Bucky looks at Steve he’s not moved from his position by the wall; but he’s closed his eyes. “You said it was boring not ten minutes ago.”

“I never said here was _boring_,” Steve opens his eyes for the sole reason of making Bucky watch as he rolls them. “Just sniping being boring.” He teases.

“You take that back.”

“Never.”

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings, Steve?_ Because you are doing._”

His friend leans his head back, smiling, and closes his eyes again. “All I’m saying is I see why you like it up here.”

Bucky nods, returns his eye to Dernier and Jones now helping the barkeep and the others clear up; collecting glasses and it looks like; organizing accommodation for them all for the night. He spies his infamous partner in crime passing across a window.

“Did you talk to Carter today?” He asks, knowing he has done; at least briefly; but he’s curious as to what Steve will answer.

He hums vaguely. “I did. We talked about the mission, Italy - a bit of home too. It was nice not to talk about bullets, bombs and secreting pilots over border lines for once. Why?”

“No reason." Bucky answers after a moment. "Just curious. It’d seem a waste not to before we all disappear and she takes off in the wind somewhere else. Can’t make a move if you don’t talk to her.”

“No one is making a move.” Steve says, as he always does, “and why do you care?”

Bucky shrugs as an answer - and the silence lingers; though it’s comfortable. “You’ll be happy to know,” Bucky notes. “I tried.”

Steve opens his eyes, looking at him in surprise. “And?” He asks hopefully.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“I tried. She tried. We got somewhere.”

“Yeah?” Steve says softly, sounding pleased. Bucky hums. “I’m glad. So glad. Super glad.”

“Good to hear.” Bucky notes, “now don’t super gladden me to death with that grin, will you?”

If anything Steve’s happy-chappy grin grows worse - _why does Bucky even bother?_ He thinks in amusement.

“Thank you, Buck. That really means a lot.”

“Thank her.” He says, “She’s the one who ‘conversationed’ me - she can be fairly persuasive. More words than were needed mind, but persuasive all the same.”

“Yeah she can be.”

A minute passes.

“You sure you don’t want to go back down there?” Bucky asks again.

“I’m content hiding away here for a while.”

“Are you sure, I mean there’s--”

“_Ssshhh_,” Steve hushes, eyes closed. “I’m being peaceful.”

Bucky huffs with laughter, and smiles into the barrel as he returns to the scope.

_Cooo- cooo! Cooou -cooo!_

Steve slams his hand down. “Where’s your gun? I’m shooting that bird.”

. . .

Steve brought up 1934 the other week - the tail end of it - about the storms and the ice and the sickness. He talked about it while trying to blow heat into Bucky’s cold bones - and he kind of loathes Steve for bringing it up honestly - because now he can’t get the memory out of his head. It keeps on coming back, slithering across his consciousness - that whole year of age sixteen honestly - with school, the alley and yard fighting, his welterweight championship, subway cars, the drinking and the messing about; track; the whole lot of it - all solidifying in the end of that year. He hates the end of that year.

_It’s Winter, with a capital W - a deep dark one, windy and stormy and icy most of all; like the Siberian or Alaskan frost Bucky’s read about. He kind of wants to go one day to one of them; just to stand in the insane flat expanse of land and snow with barely a cabin in sight; let alone a butchers, a barbers, a laundromat, a grocers, a tailors, a fire-station; a anything. He feels like it could be kind of freeing. _

_He wants the Grand Canyon more though._

_It can get cold there - but not _ ** _ **this cold** _ ** _._

_Like a curse; spreading; encroaching - the heat has been clawed out of a four block mileage with burst and frozen pipes - while a bunch of others have been cut off - unable to pay. His family is in the first party, Steve and his ma are in the second._

_It’s so cold that half the congregation have been huddled in the church for the last two days where they’ve managed to get their big fireplace going. He and his ma went earlier in the day; a twin on each of their arms so the four year olds' stopped looking so pale and complaining about having to walk._

_“Should we stay here tonight, ma? Would that--be better?” He asks, nose tucked into his scarf and Lily buried into his coat; red nose sticking out over the second button. She stretches her arms out towards the flames under the third and forth button now they’ve finally gotten their turn._

_His ma looks around at the crowded congregation, at the fact that they waited near an hour to get close to the fire - and how several of the more devout mothers are muttering to themselves and giving her dirty looks. Bucky, despite the seasons of attitude he’s been giving his ma over the last year feels very much like glaring them right out the door. If he was a worse boy maybe he’d spit on them too. _

_“No.” His ma decides, “it’s too crowded - and ‘cept for the fire the rest is too drafty. We might as well stay home with all our blankets. I’ll knit another one.”_

_Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’ll knit an entire blanket in a single afternoon, will you?”_

_His ma swats at him. “Excuse **you**, you have you seen your mother knit before, haven’t you? Your disbelief in me,” she pulls her nose up, “is fucking offensive.”_

_The women behind them murmur in disgruntlement at the curse. Bucky snorts, thinks; yeah actually to be fair ma does have wickedly speedy fingers; like magic - and she traded all that ironing for heaps of yarn last month with Luther Maisel; fifty years old and unable to take care of himself without a wife on his arm. His ma cooks and irons for him a lot out of pity since he was widowed. Luther knows she likes to sew and knit proper - so he spent a week's wages getting all sorts of bright colours for her as thanks._

_“We got our hot water bottles too. And compasses.” His ma continues, “we’ll be fine.”_

_She hoists Jenna higher when she grumbles sleepily - and moves her closer. Bucky follows - are all four year olds’ this listless - was he once?_

_“You were never four when it was this darn fucking cold.” His ma says, which makes him realize he’s spoken aloud. “Your measles at two on the other hand - that was on the way to giving us a turn. They’ll be alright - they’re goddamn Barnes girls, sweetheart.”_

_The wives mutter to each other again, louder; the looks get dirtier. His ma ignores them with well practiced pride._

_“Bet you wish you never called Mary Louise a stuck up cow now, huh ma?” _

_The look she gives him is amused and annoyed at once - and she kicks him in the side of the shin, making him grin. She uses her other hand to reach out and tuck his scarf in tighter - his hat lower. “Keep your gloves on. I won’t have you loosin’ fingers too.”_

_“It is time to share the fire, Mrs Barnes.” Elizabeth Lauder says, Mary Louise just at her back. “If you would move on - you’ve had your time - my children are freezing.”_

_Bucky’s face snarks before he can help it - because they’ve had half the time as anyone else by the fire, and there’s three other families around them that have had a good third longer than the allowed slot. And--- “My sisters are freezing too--” you hag._

_His ma’s arm snaps out to stop the step, keeping him back. Not worth it, her look says._

_Are you serious, he says back silently._

_“I see your son has less manners than I ever expected.”_

_“Funny.” Bucky says. “I was going to say the same about you.”_

_“Bucky--” his ma warns lowly. His temper has been a lot shorter this last year than normal - growing pains, his pa had said, and she can see this is a moment it’s about to flare. The ache he’s being wearing in his back from the cold combined with the ache from his growth spurts does not make for a pretty picture - and it’s been seething silently for a while. He’s worried about Steve, he’s worried about the girls, and he does not need some stuck up, holier than thou--_

_“It can’t be altogether a shock,” Mary Louise says in her ear, suddenly looking at Bucky’s mother. “I’m sure it seems altogether normal, Winfred, with, well, with your… background. But things are done differently in the city.”_

_You snake. “That why your asking us to move and noone else, huh?”_

_“You need to watch your mouth, young man--”_

_People have been telling him that for years and he hasn’t yet. “Oh yeah? Or what?”_

_His ma presses harder into his chest, making him step backwards. She steps between them. A cloud of frost issues from her mouth when she breathes._

_“They’re your children, Winifred, though as I said, there is a certain standard of behaviour expected at the respectable level--” _

_(Oh there’s plenty of respectable things your son has done that I can tell you all about, he thinks savagely, his mouth open again. “Stop.” His ma whispers, because Elizabeth’s husband is a cop.)_

_ “- especially in a house of God...Something to think about,” Mary says, “now if you please?” She sweeps her hand across them, the universal signature for ‘move aside you slut’._

_Mary Louise’s children, at her push, slide past Bucky’s legs close to the fire, pushing him away. Well he can’t very well shove children out the way, can he? Plus, they’re cold too. It’s not they’re fault their mothers are ignorant assholes. It’s the same thing he tells himself on the particularly furious days with his ma’s ‘friends’. It’s not his fault._

_“Lets get some stew, sweetheart.” She says to Bucky instead of calling them out, and willfully steps aside. You can’t be serious, he wants to ask again. “You know, in my background,” she adds, turning away from him to them, “you’re community is your family and so that’s how you act. What’s yours is theirs. Sharing. I though that same kindness was a staple of the Church - I guess an illiterate fool like me was -_ ** _ ** fucking** _ ** _ -” they almost hiss, and she’s taking great pleasure in this Bucky can tell, “wrong. Shame.”_

_She walks away without another look; Jenna’s sleepy head hooked over her shoulder. Bucky smugly follows her, _ ** _ **check and mate** _ ** _ in his eyes. He doesn’t listen as they splutter. His ma hands him Jenna so he has both girls and she can pull the thermoses out of her bag - and takes the veal-marrow stew with grateful thanks as Father Matthews spoons it in._

_He drops a thermos off at Steve’s door, Jenna hooked over his shoulder, and Sarah opens the door; sighs fondly and kisses him on the cheek. She tickles Jenna’s ankle, who giggles. “She’s seeming a bit better.” She remarks at his sister’s slightly returned energy._

_“Uh-huh.” Bucky says a little distractedly, “only now she’s passed it onto Lils’.” He can hear Steve hacking further inside. “Is he--”_

_“The same.” Sarah answers, “getting as much rest as he can God help him. Thank you for this, love.”_

_She kisses his cheek again and sends him on his way._

_The last of the stew stays warm until its dark, at which point his pa throws a newly knitted blanket at his head. He can practically smell the worn wood of her thicker needles where they must have furiously flinted together. “From your mother.” His pop says with a shit-eating grin. “She says to say I told you so.”_

_He groans._

_“You owe me a foot-rub,” his ma shouts from the other room where she’s trying to settle the twins in her and pa’s bed._

_“I’m never making a bet with you again!” He calls back._

_“Even I could have told you you’d loose that one.” Becca says where she’s sat flush against him in three layers of clothes. Her teeth are chattering from just coming from outside. His pa chuckles, and strokes the hair from her eyes, sliding a hot water bottle under her cardigan. “Ah-ah-aaaa.” She breathes in relief, cuddling it towards her belly as she stands to head to the bedroom. They’re going to be sharing tonight for heat. And he thought sleeping in the same bed as his little sister was supposed to stop after the move back out of Steve’s tenement (not his, because it ain’t his home just like this new place ain’t - his old house - the one they lost in the Crash, that was home.)_

_“You too.” His pop says, handing him the other._

_“What about you and ma? We’ve only got two.”_

_“I borrowed a couple from base for your mother and I.” He says, pointing to the kitchen where they must be waiting to get filled. He thought he could still hear the kettle whistling. Figured they were just going to drink the hot water instead._

_He raises an eyebrow doubtfully. “Borrowed, huh?”_

_His pop ruffles his hair, “Prerogative of a First Sergeant. They’ll get 'em back. You think I used to walk out with all that pasta without Walker” - pop’s boss - “knowing about it. He’s got heat, and we don’t. Stop stressing lad.” He shakes Bucky’s head fondly, palms on the sides of his forehead. He smiles at his pop, closed mouthed in return. “Go on now.”_

_So Bucky sleeps curled around Becca that night - they’d started back to back - grumbling and whispering the usual stick at each other - but it was still cold even with two blankets so they deigned to cuddle. Bucky dreams of dark and tender things as their icy feet tickle each other and the hot water bottle bumps against the spot on his stomach._

_Becca’s having nightmares - or wild dreams he wants to know nothing about, thank you very much - so she keeps kicking him away, lashing out. When Bucky wakes, again, ready to_ ** _ ** smother ** _ ** _her - he realizes it wasn’t his sister who woke him. His pop’s dark eyes meet his, bent over their bed with a pale face._

_“Call came through downstairs, lad. The Rodgers boy--” Weird, Bucky thinks at first - he normally calls Steve by his Christian name - “he’s dying.”_

** _ **No** _ ** _, he thinks second, and he rears back as though stricken with a physical blow. Then he disentangles himself from Becca who murmurs and frowns in her sleep - and reaches without a word for another woollen sweater. He doesn’t care that it’s the itchy one._

_In the kitchen his ma is also up, her eyes tight and harried. Pop gives her a look behind him, he just feels it. Her lips thin and she passes another thermos bottle into his hands - and he can smell the last of the other day’s thick dumpling soup. The stove and saucepan are still on - hastily warmed up. _

_Instead of telling Bucky to try make him eat, instead she just says “Promise me James--” and then stops. Which, like how his pop never calls Steve by any other name than his own - she never calls him by this either. The curl of her mouth tells him what the sentence was going to be though; unhappy and trying not to be cruel. She fears Sarah has only sent for Bucky to say goodbye._

_She watched a cousin, as close as a sister die in a bed, and she’s told Bucky - accidentally - two years into their friendship when he tried to sneak out of his Aunt’s birthday bash to see Steve - that she doesn't want that for her children; and she knows he doesn’t like to see death. She knows he walked away from the dying cat when Steve stayed._

_She wasn’t enough gins in to have forgotten it - he knows it and she knows it - just as he knows it had come up once she realized Steve sickly Rogers wasn’t a flyway friend - but one who stuck like gum and was going nowhere. Her eyes are very grave as she tucks his scarf on and his pop lays his coat on his shoulders. It’s still unbuttoned when he gets outside. His heart is beating fast as he skids down the three and a half blocks to Sarah’s and Steve’s, and the street is frozen; deserted, as silent as a tomb. Bucky’s ears burn and his eyes too - lips already getting chapped the only way they do in the cold. He wants to pick at them - but he can’t stop because Sarah called for him. Sarah did, because she knows he’ll come without question._

_He climbs the staircase, tasting blood, and hammers on the door. Like before Sarah’s the one who comes, at once - she’s been waiting. He falls into her arms, crowding her. Her icy palms solidify on his cheeks. _

_“He’s asleep,” she says before he can say anything. She has her winter coat on, and her face is as white as a linen shroud. “I need you to stay with him, Bucky.”_

_She calls him James most of the time, but not his time. Everyone is changing names this night._

_“I--where are you going?” He asks, bewildered._

_She swallows, and bows her head in silent grief, “The priest.” She says humbly. “My boy will have last rites.”_

_“_ ** _ **No,** _ ** _” Bucky snaps, automatic. “No Sarah.” He says, more controlled. “No--you don’t--”_

_"--I do." She tarries away from him, pouring the dumpling soup into porcelain cups. An entire dumpling takes up near the whole thing - one dumpling - one cup - and hot water - a few slithers of onion. Bucky can’t help but notice it. “You must sit up with him. Please. I may be long.”_

_Bucky nods, silent for a moment, then takes the cups. “I swear. I swear.” _

_“I know you do James.”_

_Once he’s looking over Steve’s shivering body in the pile of blankets, the mattress pushed as close to the stove as can be; lit with newspaper and wood from old apple crates instead of coal - the promise turns to ash in his mouth. He approaches the bed timidly. Steve does not stir when the door closes after Sarah, nearly slamming; nor when he reaches out and touches his wrist and it’s hard and cold as bone._

_“Steve,” He says, and then again, “Steve.” But Steve’s eyes don’t open. Is he breathing? He bends low, listening - yes, there it is - a thin frail rasp of air, but he’s breathing. With hot tears burning Bucky takes off his coat and lays it on top of Steve too so that he knows he’s not alone. He untucks the hot-water bottle from his waistband and shoves that under the blankets over Steve’s belly. _

_Bucky is sixteen and his best friend is about to die._

_“You don’t gotta,” His voice cracks on the whisper, unable to finish, his useless hands clenching into fists. Steve heaves in a sudden rasping breath; pressing into the mattress as he shivers. He tapers off again, fading. He thinks briefly of the fun they were were having not two weeks ago; slipping and sliding across the pond in the park with no ice-skates. He thinks briefly of the snowball Steve had nailed into his face with spectacular accuracy. His laugh afterwards. “What the hell good’s winter if it kills you Steve?”_

_He hates Siberia, he decides now - he doesn’t want to go. He hates it. He’s furious suddenly - angry as anything - rage is bitter on his lips from the growing pains, to Mary Louise, to fucking everything for trying and succeeding in taking Steve from the physical world. “You don’t gotta go right now,” he whispers again, finishing this time - but Steve sleeps on; deep and dark._

_The Rodgers kid was always going to die one winter. Everyone said so, even Steve had known but Bucky---Bucky had thought they had more time. Thought Steve would at least get to graduate before falling off the scale and onto the stairs to take him above._

_What can I do? He wants to ask - but knows he won’t get an answer. Without letting himself think he abandons the dumpling soup and scrambles over him, shimming down and burying himself under the blankets too; around Steve - curled - pressing his chest against his lean, gaunt ribcage and Bucky; staring, feels the solidity, the blood beating reality of him._

_ “You will warm up.” He orders, willing himself to become as hot as a furnace to combat Steve’s unnatural cold._

_He presses his face against the back of Steve’s neck, lays his other arm over the hot water bottle to stop himself from shivering too. Steve grumbles, turning his head; and Bucky waits - but nothing - just the same frail rasps of air. He pushes a rough kiss against Steve’s hair instead, nothing like the soft but sincere kisses Sarah lays on him sometimes. If anything - if Steve was awake - it might even hurt. _

_This does not feel abnormal. Affection is hard-won and swallowed up in Steve - in movements if not words, no matter how much he forces on Steve - who pretends he doesn’t like it - when Bucky knows he does. A thick rain has picked up: he can hear it thundering against the small shuttered window. Something’s trying to come in._

_He thinks: we are keeping Death away._

_That night he sees it in a dream or not-a-dream - the skeleton; the pale horse; the scythe - an awful sight. Nothing like the stories of knights and paladins, or John Wayne with his hat and pistol at the ready - different weapons, different horse. More like something from The Shadow - horror come to life. _ _Death incarcerate, reaching it’s skeleton hand towards Steve’s hair, rears back as Bucky snarls; animal - wolf-like. A white wolf, Bucky thinks, then snarls again when the hand tries to return. He knows he’s shivering; his teeth chattering, but it doesn’t matter because Death’s back straightens and the hand stops; instead observes their equally pale faces under its dark hood. Bucky has fire rush up in a protective circle and his eyes blink open._

_Steve’s trembling into him and into the hot water bottle and there’s no skeletal horse - no scythe. Not yet._

_He leans over Steve to poke the embers in the stove - throws balled up pieces of newspaper into it with class act aim - pokes them until they catch. Light comes back into the room. Then he lays his head back to it’s spot._

_He must keep awake, he realizes, that dream was a warning; an omen like ma said her grand-ma-ma used to talk of; otherwise it will pluck Steve from the bed like a rag doll. He must keep watch - if he falls asleep, Bucky thinks with the fierce conviction of a boy - Steve will be dead in the morning and in two days the funeral procession will bear his body into the ground._

_He must keep watch at any cost, even as each hour tick-tocks past and Sarah does not come back. He prays, properly this time. At dawn when the pale grey light trickles in Bucky lifts his head again - tells Steve: “You’re calmer now.”_

_The shivering has stopped, and he can hear it - Steve’s breath has evened out. His fever’s broken. His back is damp with clammy sweat._

_He had kept watch, all the long night - and Steve’s still living when Sarah comes back._

_She comes back stone-faced, grieving already, thinking she’s missed her child’s last moments in the time it took in search of God - but she’s not alone. A priest from seven districts away whose name Bucky doesn’t know comes with her - the only one who’d brave the awful storm to administer to her dying, likely already dead, son._

_He’s incredibly kind for that very reason. Bucky can see it in him in ways he can’t always see it in the men he does know who deliver sermon - but he is not kind to him._

_Sarah stops, near dead, on the threshold; looking down on the two boys; fair and dark, wrapped up under the blankets - and Bucky faces the priest and sneers: “We don’t need you no more. He ain’t dying yet.”_

He remembers Sarah had dropped to her knees, her breath catching in a mix of relief and disbelief.

Bucky also remembers feeling, like he did with Andrew, that it ought to be wrong. Church sermon, the fires of hell, eternal damnation; deviancy all said it was - but it couldn’t be so long as Steve - and his Andy - were real and alive.

He’d forgotten that he’d felt that then.

He looks at his watch, and it’s 17:17 as they march - what? He could have sworn it was 16:10 not five minutes ago - and this is a different field. Oh.

. . .

It’s mid February - nearly March. It should be warming up by now - but he still feels achy in a way he can’t blame on growing pains anymore. He hates the winter of 1934.

. . .

_“Are you cold Sergeant? That’s a shame.” The light glints off Zola’s glasses, then off his _ _stethoscope_ _ as he presses it to Bucky’s chest. It doesn’t feel cold. _ ** _ **He** _ ** _ is cold; the instrument is luke-warm in _ _comparison_ _. Bucky doesn’t like luke-warm things, there’s no point to them; he likes stew and beans hot; _ _ice-cream_ _ cold; coffee sweet and warming; ice on a swelling eye numbing; baths and showers scolding. Nothing is worth it if it’s luke-warm._

_He likes luke-warm now. Zola takes the _ _stethoscope_ _ off; he whines, wanting it back. _ _ He’s cold _ _. Zola returns it, a different spot now - over his heart._

_“Forty one, _ _forty_ _ two, _ _forty_ _ three…femtio sex, femtio siu, femtio atta….attio ett.” He counts, eyes on his watch, ears on Bucky’s sad still pumping heart. “Hmm,” Zola exclaims, noting it down up as a series of numbers in numbers - that doesn’t make sense. “Your resting _ _heart-rate_ _ has lowered Sergeant.”_

_“I’m cold.” Bucky mumbles again._

_He sighs in annoyance. “Yes. You’ve said. Do get over it. Put him back with the other one.”_

_What other one? Who?_

_The light glints off Zola’s glasses - he’s going back to the dark cell _\----

\---- it’s daylight. There’s a bug on his bedroll. He doesn’t like bugs. _Is it a locust? Where is he?_

“Ah of course - more rain. Typical. Fucking France.” Dugan says somewhere behind his back. _He’s back in France, yes, they came back over. Okay_. “Seriously Dernier, when does your weather get better?”

“When the German’s leave and we are free, mon ami. Then the sun will shine again.”

Dugan snorts, “Yeah, alright, okay. Should have expected that. You can’t ever just say Spring can you?”

“Will the German’s leave by Spring?”

“I’ll drive every single one of them out with my bare hands if it’ll stop the rain.” Falsworth says.

Dernier hums, then grunts in affirmation. “Then yes.” He toasts his canteen into Gabe’s with a “Viva la Revolucion.”

Bucky sits up, sweeping the bug off the pillow of his bedroll.

“Morning Sleeping Beauty.” Steve greets, “thought for sure I’d have to shake you awake to get you up.” That hasn’t happened, not even close, since they shipped out or even before; and Steve looks pleased at what he thinks about nearly having to do now. “Like back home - you were a nightmare to get up for your shifts.”

“We don’t all rise naturally at five am.” He fires back, clearing this throat, “At least, before the army. What time is it?”

“Just before seven.” Monty says, and gestures to the tiny tins warming up over the fire. “Got your brekkie here.”

“Who cooked it?”

Monty rolls his eyes, “Me.”

“That’s fine then.” He says, talking the K-ration as Monty hands it to him in his gloves, crossing his legs on his bedroll to scoff it down. It’s hot-to-warm, not lukewarm, which is nice: heated up chopped ham and eggs. Monty chucks the rest of his breakfast ration over - cigarettes, biscuits, malted milk tablets, Halazone water purification tablet, chewing gum, the packet of toilet paper and cubed sugar. It lands, compact, by his knee in it’s waxed box as he balances the bottom of the heated can on his glove; pulling the lid off with his teeth. Steve chucks him his spoon before he starts scooping it out with his hand or his knife. As soon as he’s finished, some kind of warmth sitting in his belly (thank god Monty always tries to put the effort into actually warming them up when he has the chance), he shakes the water tablet packet and dumps it into his canteen. He cracks open the biscuit packet and shoves them in his mouth too, barely chewing them; just wanting his stomach to stop growling.

“What?” Bucky asks at Steve’s raised eyebrow, mouth full. “I’m hungry.”

He nods, considering. “Fair enough.”

The boys start passing around the now full, and _Christ; steaming; yes,_ drinking tins. They have a system now, whosoever is on last watch raids their rations to take out all the coffee packets and dump them together to make a communal cup - which is then shared out. The only downside after several weeks of this is their main, and really only cooking pan seems to always leave the slightly bitter taste of coffee in their cooked meals - but rations are pretty bland and tasteless anyway so none of them much care. Bucky gets his tin, dumps his malted milk tablet in; and then Jones’ when he tosses both Steve and Bucky his so they don’t go to waste as he drinks his black, dark, _disgusting_ coffee. Bucky pulls his face just looking at it.

He glances at Steve’s box, who gets a K-Ration and a supplementary C-Ration. Even though he _should,_ he never eats all of it, scraping by either saving it for later in the day or sharing it out when any one man is flagging. Bucky dares to try his luck; _god he’s hungry - he’d kill for another C-Ration._

“Trade you my cigarettes for your fruit bar?”

It’d be a better trade for Dugan, the resident chimney smoker, but Steve has the more food. He rolls his eyes but easily tosses over the dried fruit bar; and Bucky tosses him his four pack Chesterfield cigarettes. He chews it down this time, and then leans forward and rubs at his eyes, sips at his coffee. The boys and he chat, getting ready to move out again, brushing their teeth and washing their mouths out.

His stomach growls. He opens the chewing gum.

Steve glances over as he’s packing up.

. . .

16th February 1944 - ADMIRMAL RADIO (CBS) - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

_[ON THE HOME FRONT]_

_….Thanks to huge increases in farm production America has enough food for the basic requirements of good health and sound _ _nutrition_ _ and still meet the food demands of war. But, we do not have all the food we want and can afford. Rationing is the democratic way to share and share alike. It is a vital wartime _ _necessity_ _, but rationing is not enough. Prices must be kept from sky rocketing, black markets must be stamped out. Fifteen million Americans have signed the Home Front Pledge which states ‘ I will pay no more than top legal prices. I will not accept ration goods without getting ration points’ as part of the agreement. Living up to this pledge will ensure a fair share of all and that’s the right way; the democratic way. Remember; food fights for freedom…._

. . .

His best friend (in the entire goddamn world,_ good __goddamn_) gives him three cubes of chocolate fudge sometime at eleven, and when Bucky gets up (not wakes) the next day there’s an extra packet of grape-juice Vit-C powder, half a D-Ration chocolate bar, and two premixed oatmeal cereals tucked into the inner pocket of his pack. It’s not much but he feels like crying with gratitude.

Steve gives him a look at supper time when he routes for his ration to heat up over some hot ashes they found. Bucky’s tucked his entire day’s worth of cigarettes into Steve’s pack.

He smiles at him innocently over his cold beef and pork loaf.

. . .

Steve donates his chocolate bar to Dernier the next day, and his spare oatmeal to Gabe another. He splits, or quarters his pork loafs other days of his supplementary C-Ration. He always saves some biscuits it seems, and Bucky nearly always finds them in the same inner pocket like a new tradition, often with grape or orange Vit-C powder packets.

Steve finds Bucky’s energy tablets in his pack. Bucky finds Steve’s sugar cubes. Steve finds Bucky’s breakfast cigarettes. Bucky finds Steve’s dried fruit bar.

. . .

“Stop it.” Steve says, giving him back the packet of toilet paper tissues.

“You’re a big boy now, excuse me for thinking you did bigger shits too.”

Steve gives him a look that’s warning, slightly embarrassed, but also like he’s trying not to laugh. “Stop.” He says again, not quite concealing his humour.

“No.” Bucky says simply. “Trades a trade.”

“Then stop trading.” Steve re-butts. “Think of it as all the Christmas presents I never got you all rolled into each day.”

“Well, that still doesn’t make us even does it? The first and only present I got you for the first nine years of our friendship was a_ bowl of ice._”

“Which was a friggin’ swell present,” Steve replies, “in the blazing heat of July. Even if you did sneak in through the back window of Mr Shelby’s at nine at night to get access to his meat freezer. _Twice_.”

“Well I had to get it out, otherwise what was the point of putting it in?”

“_The point of this __conversation_,” Steve redirects, “is stop.”

“No.” He says again, because he desperately doesn’t want Steve to stop either - he lives on those biscuits.

. . .

“Bucky I swear to God!” Steve yell-whispers in the middle of the day as they’re re-coning along the Marginol Line, when the pack of condoms Bucky put in his pack falls out while he’s looking for his binoculars.

“You’re welcome.”

“What’s this even for?”

“For you and Carter, obviously. Duh.”

“That is not something that is happening, or something for you to fucking care about.”

“I’m looking out for you. Wrap it before you tap it, Steve.”

“_I’m going to murder you_.” Steve spits out in a whisper.

“Do it after you’ve done the deed then, so I can live in a world where you’ve touched a pair of tits and gizzed yourself.”

Steve hits him so hard there’s a thump and they have to both duck down in a flash behind a fallen tree. The German’s send out a scout group to investigate, so they move, sliding further down the hill towards a drop in the dirt. “This is your fault.” Steve hisses with a grin, and promptly trips him so he falls into the ditch instead of jumping in it.

“You motherfucker.” Bucky curses, as Steve pushes him into the wall of dirt, hand over his mouth. The patrol walks literally right above them; they can spy their mud-crusted boots through a gap in the roots of a tree in verge above their heads; hear them clear as day as they say: “Do you see anything?” in German.

“Nein, probably an animal. This far in the locals know not to come close."

“Ja, you’re right. And the English aren't stupid enough to try and send anyone this close to the Line.“

Bucky starts poking and then tickling Steve in the side, and Steve shoves his head silently further into the mound, hand still over his mouth; his own lips pressed together and eyes squeezed shut - trying not to laugh. He goes a glorious red with the effort. They move off, and Steve releases his mouth with a laughing-gasp as Bucky gets his armpit and licks his hand at the same time.

“You_ are a nightmare._” He hisses out, but he’s smiling. “How’s the gonorrhoea, itchy and painful I hope.”

“How’s life as a self-restrained vestal virgin? _Virtue_-ually boring no doubt.” He fires back without a second’s hesitation, and ducks Steve’s next swing.

Steve groans at the awful pun. “I see two months as a POW also wasn’t able to beat your terrible puns out of you. Good Lord, I had some hope for justice in this world.”

Bucky shakes the soil out his hair, grabs a handful and smears it across Steve’s nose.

. . .

_32557038325570383257700325570 Steve. Steve. Ma. 385 Becca. We _ _regret_ _ to inform you - pa. Vita-Kammer--Vitalitat---Stehvermogen---trial - yellow, green…blue?_

. . .

Steve starts swallowing energy tablets like their salted peanuts.

. . .

Steve looses the tiny tiny amount of fat under his chin.

When Bucky cocks his head, he thinks, _maybe - are Steve’s cheeks starting to hollow in again? There - that--that bruise was from four days ago - not today. It should be gone by now. Steve's veins running beneath his skin are darker, more vivid, more pronouced - under the ash on his face - he's pale. He looks tired, even though he wasn't on watch and got a full night last night. The uniform over his midriff is looser. Is the serum wearing off?__...He’s not getting any shorter._

No. He’s just not eating enough, because he keeps giving his fucking food away; to Bucky. _Jesus. Fuck_. He needs the crackers too though, and the extra energy tablets when the nights are long and just as wakeful as the days.

“He needs more food.” He says to Carter when he see’s her in passing back in the middle of fucking Germany again. She’s dressed as a Wehrmacht secretary. They have a sort of understanding now. He watches out for Steve in the field even if he doesn’t need too. She watches out for him in command with the twisty politicians and prideful officers.

She takes him at his word. “Okay.”

The next time the SSR drops them supplies with a days notice there’s the food rations they’re expecting to collect with the ammo - and more some. She’s scored two K-Rations for Steve and a C-Ration spare - as if knowing he’s going to continue being a sacrificing goody-two shoes no matter what. It’s specifically labeled for him, so he can’t argue it.

_Ha._

Steve looks at him in slight suspicion, like he thinks he knows, but Bucky’s good at playing innocent when he needs to be.

. . .

Steve brings up the food when she legs it to them over the German-Czech border a week later after stealing meeting transcripts between _SS-__Gruppenführer_Müller and Hoffmann, and_ SS-__Oberführer__ Dr. _Klopfer and Heydrich. She has six transcripts, and blew her way out of the German Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia long before it could be tracked back to her.

“They spend so much time worrying about Operation Double-cross and who we’ve turned they don’t notice me strolling my way in.” She quips as she arrives, nearly crashing the stolen _Opel Kapitän_she’s been driving for thirteen hours straight. “And yes. I may have forgotten, for a moment; only a moment, that Europeans drive on the wrong side of the road.”

“Or the right--correct side - you English are the only ones who drive on the left side.”

“The left side is the right side.” Monty and she chorus as one.

Morita holds his hands up, “Not worth the argument, I take it back.”

“Peggy,” Steve says, “at the last drop there was extra food and--”

“You were getting skinny again.“ She cuts in, interrupting him with an entirely plain face, and walks away. She calls over her shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky doesn’t quite school his smirk in time from where he’s sat against the wall of the bridge they’re under.

“I saw that.” Steve says.

“Saw what?” He says, and copies Peggy Carter, walking away.

. . .

“I think he thinks we’re teaming up against him.”

“We are.” He replies to her statement. “Technically we’re teaming up _for_ him.”

She hums, “That’s a good point I suppose.”

He lets her trade her two cigarettes for two of his chewing gums, even though he still doesn’t like the taste.

“You’re welcome.” He snarks at her.

“My pleasure. Don’t choke on smoke.” She replies deftly, but isn’t offended when he trades the cigarettes again to Jones for his sugar cube and half a packet of biscuits.

“Geez, where are you putting this stuff?” Dugan says, which is a little bit or a lot, of a stupid question.

_Wherever food goes when it’s not enough._ He’s trading for some dinner time cheese next time, processed or not.

. . .

“Oh _god yes_.” He says when they’re back in Czechoslovakia. He recruits Jones to sneak away with him while Falsworth covers to steal as many apricots as they can. They give the orchard trees a run for their money, catching the fruit right as they’ve ripened before anyone can pick them.

They dump a whole pack and two handfuls worth at the center of their circle, victorious. Steve stares at the apricots spilling out from the pack and the ones rolling along the ground that they dropped.

“What?” He and Jones say defensively together.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “I was wondering why all your stuff was everywhere.” He says, motioning to the entire content of Jones’ pack spilled out behind Monty’s pack. “He’s terrible at cover stories by the way.”

“I_ am not_.” Falsworth says, offended.

He repeats Falsworth’s cover story - and yeah, he’s right - that’s more than terrible. He knows never to pick him again now then.

“Jesus Monty, my sister when she was five could do better than that.” Morita says.

“Not all of us are top-notch bullshitters.” He grumbles with no heat, biting into an apricot. Steve’s on his second. Bucky matches his speed like it’s competition.

“I’ve never had an Apricot before.” Steve muses, “not even in a can.”

“Me neither.” Bucky says.

“Guys guys! Don’t eat the fucking stones in the middle!” Falsworth fires out sharply, knocking one out of Bucky’s hand as Steve leans forward and lets one hesitantly fall out of his mouth. “That parts poisonous, are you mental?”

“We’ve never had them before.” The chorus together again, “how should we know? You don’t die if you eat an apple core.”

“Too be fair that’s a good point.” Dugan points out, spitting out juice as he speaks.

“Well these one’s do. No eating the stones.”

“Got it.” Steve says as he eats his fourth, a pile of stones building next to his hip.

“Good god, Captain.”

Steve shrugs at him innocently. “I’m peckish.”

. . .

_“Ah. You’re awake. Or as close as you can be.”_

_Barnes. Sergeant. 1440638---no wait---that’s not his serial number. He’s not a Baptist. His middle name starts with B, not R. Red and green under his tongue. Balavas dog-tags round his neck. Do they work? Did ma’s?_

_Who’s Richard? Or is it _ _Robert, Ronald, Raymond, Rodger, Russel, Robin, Ross, Romeo, Rodney, Randall, Rubin, Rowan_ _?_

. . .

Bucky’s likes the stories and the art of his Faith best; he likes the plots and the meanings and the descriptions - he likes the visual element of it; if he can imagine the demeanour and _the look_; the more likely he is to believe. Maybe that’s why he’s always liked movies so much, putting story by sight into his head instead of by words. Revelations and Scripture of sin and punishment are so-so, they’re - whatever, if he can’t see it in his minds eye why should he believe it?

He doesn’t remember any sermons when he was young, and not because he’s forgotten, but because he was never listening in the first place. He used to just stare up at the sun streaming through the coloured glass of Gabriel or St Agnes or St. Anyone, sighing with boredom while his father incessantly nudged him to sing along - and wonder if it was a correct likeness.

Most angels in the Bible have the appearance and form of a man; many have wings, but not all. Some are larger than life; bright and shining, and fiery, while others look like ordinary humans. The Seraphim angels are the brightest, burning with passionate love; soaring in and around Thy Lord’s throne, singing of his everlasting brilliance. Ezekiel, in his inaugural vision saw a cluster of regular angels in his thirtieth year. He said:

_I looked, and I saw a windstorm coming out of the north - an _ _immense_ _ cloud with flashing lightening and _ _surrounded_ _ by brilliant light. The centre of the fire looked like glowing metal, and in the fore was what looked like four living creatures. In appearance their form was human, but each of them had four faces and four wings, and the wings of one touched the wings of another. Their legs were straight, their feet were like those of a calf and gleamed like burnished bronze. Under their wings on their four sides they had human hands._

_Their faces looked like this: Each of the four had the face of a human being, and on the right side each had the face of a lion, and on the left the face of an ox; each also had the face of an eagle. Such were their faces._

In all the artwork, and all the idols he’s seen, from Michael to Gabriel to Daniel to Metatron, none of them have had more than one singular pair of wings, and he’s never seen one as a lion or an eagle; that itself seemed almost pagan. He remembers it was disappointing revelation to make, that even the masters of paint and glass - _who’s __job__ it had been to depict_ \- had got it wrong; so who could get it right? What was the point?

Angels are messengers, devout and holy, but they’re also warriors - and do God’s bidding in the battle of good and evil. That is something Bucky can more relate to.

There’s a Revelation, somewhere, on one page - Steve could tell him exactly what it is if he asked; that counts the number of angels in service. It goes: _Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. They encircled the throne and the living creatures and the elders._ They sang a song, but the song is not important to Bucky.

_Thousands upon thousands, and then thousand times ten thousand_ \- if there were that many then where were they when Sarah Rogers, the most devote woman he knew died young; and nearly took her son with her? Where were they when men began to march on one another again, where were they when Hydra melted it’s way out of the woodwork? Because the men in masks, and those who command them are evil men, committing evil acts - so why don’t they come down in all their burning impassioned glory to _smite smite smite._ If they can drop the shit on Egypt with the Seven Plagues to end all Plagues, come to Joan of Arc with the path to victory, repel Attila the Hun from Rome with no blood-shed by simply standing side by side with the Pope; brandishing flaming swords of holy fire, _why can’t they get off their asses and do something!_

It’s a war, it’s their duty. Where were they when evil men carved him open and took took took, where were they then? Maybe he didn’t deserve it, maybe none of humanity does - or maybe - it’s all just a big fucking joke and God Almighty is laughing at them from above.

Following faiths based on mythological figures ensures the destruction of one’s inner being. We’re inhibited, controlled out of-- out of fear of some intangible parent figure who--who shakes a finger at us from thousands of years ago and says, and says: “do it, do it and I’ll fuckin’ spank you anyway.”

That’s probably why Steve’s the better man of the two of them, he’s not tempted to commit war crimes, and he’s always been sickeningly righteous, back lit by orange and pink; returning from battle. He carries grace in his very skin - maybe they…maybe the angels did send someone? Maybe they said _screw it_, screw the infallible idle God, _lets do something…?_

Mankind hardly has the monopoly of rebellion - the angels rebelled too, once. Maybe, once they saw Steve’s righteous stupid path forward they said, _yeah, let’s do him a solid_, and cleared the way to give him an extra push from behind as the sulphur inferno rained up instead of down in that jumping leap.

Maybe they did it again with that building - maybe they’re still doing it - maybe Bucky and Carter aren’t the only ones looking out for him. Steve’s got triple guardians, and Bucky has one; Steve.

That’s the kinda’ religion he can get behind.

. . .

_stabil und lebensfähig_ _, says a man with spectacles. Cool underground light glints off the glass----and…._

He’s at home - not in his first home with the yellow sunlight and blue wallpaper - but his tenement home. He can hear Scotty McAlister’s broken radio spitting out static through the wall, and the man grunts, sticking and twisting his screwdriver into it’s innards. Bucky has innards - _he’s seen them hasn’t he? _

(Red fleshy sausages that never seem to end in clammy hands coated with gloves.)

He trails his hand down to his stomach - he’s sixteen but bare-chested, there’s scruff on his face - his ma hates it on him where she likes it on his father, but he made a bet with Johnny Shelby about who could grow a beard first. He’s winning. The hair on his snail trail is less, and not quite as dark, but it doesn’t hide the long raw score mark down his body. He feels along the staples, a inch apart from below his belly button to the top of his first rib. He cocks his head, thumbing along the red line caked in dry blood, realizes he’s growing new staples in the seam between his pecs instead of around them -_ huh? Weird._

“Honestly George, don’t you think you’re over-reacting?” His mother says, hair twisted up in a haphazard clip, piled on her head but loose as she walks into the room. Her dress hangs off her a little as she carries a cloth, and another one of her dresses she’s just taken in draped over a shoulder. She’s at home but she’s still wearing a little rogue; not that she needs it, and she’s used a mix of coffee and paste on her eyelashes to make them longer and darker. She’s always liked to look her best, sweet, neat and put-together in private and in public.

_ She’s so beautiful,_ Bucky remembers, _she always has been. The talk of the town; all the boys wanted her in their day but she chose his pa, until she didn’t_.

He frowns - she didn’t look like this when he was this age; this is more from when he was twelve and thirteen - when the twins came as an unexpected surprise. She was too thin then; too skinny - skipping meals so he and Becks could have more. This was when the fighting started; when the infidelity started he remembers; four kids in, a little of the afterbirth blues, stress, no money and a husband who was always away at base. Away from blood family; excommunicated, she was very alone - alone and angry. His pa (without talking it properly through with her, he knows now) had invested their savings - and what inheritance she had before leaving her family behind. She let him take care of the money because she trusted him, and he trusted the banks. They lost _everything_ \- including the first house she’d ever lived in without wheels.

Their fights could be vicious and nasty, but were only ever words for the most part and they only lasted a few hours; unless pop would deliberately bait her in the way only he knew how. Bucky can hardly blame her for the time she threw the can of peaches at his pop’s head, because honestly, he did deserve that one. In that first year there was a lot of fighting and a lot of fucking; which was what they did when they weren’t fighting - hence the twins, born when they couldn’t even string together enough for a crib.

She loves the girls like nothing else; they all do and did, but there was a moment on the way home once when he heard her scream at his pa; _“Well who’s fault is it for knocking me up, you pathetic asshole!” - before streaming into a series of Romanian or Romanai insults he didn’t understand. “Are you trying to starve us? Or do we disappear every time you put that fucking uniform on and leave?”_

_That was how Steve found out about the coming birth, who cut off mid-laugh, grabbed Bucky and _ _forcibly_ _ shoved him down the stairs with a sharp, nervous “Actually lets go to my place!”_

“No, I don’t Winnie! Where were you the other night? Mrs McAllister said the girls were with her nearly all night.” His pa says, following through the doorway - he’s tall, stocky with a thick dark brown beard, hair cropped military short. They walk straight past Bucky like he’s not even there.

His ma rolls her eyes, “Mrs McAllister likes to exaggerate. I went out for the evening with Louise, that’s it. The girls were fed, fine and in bed - Bucky was with the Rogers’ for most of the night, and finishing up his homework when I got in. Maybe if you were_ here _you could have taken care of_ your children_ to save that woman making up stories.”

“Ma? Pop?” He calls.

The ignore him and keep arguing. He feels like he’s floating, and feels weightless as he walks towards them. His ma slams the dress onto the ironing board, starts furiously ironing with jerky angry movements. She starts ignoring his pa like they are him.

“Ma!” He shouts louder, right in front of her. “Ma answer me_! Ma, look at me!”_

“Answer me!” His father snaps, mirroring him. “Winnie for gods sake, look at me!”

“_Ma_!” He shouts again---and--he’s in the doorway of the kitchen across the room. He feels dizzy with the jump. His parents turn to face him and _his body_, but not_ him_, rubs his head tiredly; scuffing up his hair. They’re looking at his chest, but where his eye-line used to be at the age he’s supposed to be. His voice comes out higher; unbroken, when he speaks the words of the memory.

“Can you be quieter? You woke the twins.”

As if on cue two sets of crying lungs start behind him, or at the very least come into his and apparently his parents’ hearing: as though they didn’t hear it until now.

“I tried to quiet them but they won’t stop.” His younger self inhabiting his slightly older body says. _This is so __weird__. _He looks down again, the staples are still there - but no one but him seems to see them.

His mother sighs. His pop’s face scrunches up, and beckons him close as he ma pushes past him with a “now look what you’ve done” aimed at his father.

“Sorry about that, kiddo.” He says, hand in Bucky’s hair. “Did they keep you up last night?”

He hums in affirmation.

His father nods, wiping his other hand over his own tired face. “Yeah, I think they kept us all up - it’s what happens when babes teethe. You probably don’t remember with your oldest sister since you were still so young yourself. That’s why we let Becca go over to the Carsons as a break - it’s only fair if you have one too. Why don’t you head over to Steve’s for a bit?”

“Can’t.” Bucky says, “he’s sick. Ma doesn’t want me over there when he’s sick. She gets funny about it with the marime thing.”

His pop hums, ignoring the last part. He scratches at Bucky’s scalp; his height the perfect match for his father’s hand; who towers over him, but in a good way. “That boy gets sick a lot, doesn’t he?” He muses.

Bucky shrugs, then as an afterthought adds defensively. “Yeah, so what?”

“No reason.” His pop says, who knows that defense well.

Bucky sighs, “Sarah doesn’t want me over either right now; I think she’s worried it’s Scarlet Fever again.”

“Again?”

“He’s had it before,” Bucky explains, “but he was fine the other day. I think she’s just being paranoid.”

“No no, hey.” His father says immediately, “if she thinks it might be that there’s not a chance in hell she’ll risk spreading it. I’m with your ma on this now, you don’t go over there until it’s clear.” Bucky pulls a face, about to say_, I have a strong __constitution_, which is exactly what his pop always says about him anyway. “I mean it, lad.” His pa warns before he can get it out.

“Yeah okay.” He agrees, then changes the subject to something he’s been thinking about a lot. “Are you and ma okay? You’ve been fighting a lot again lately.”

His father sighs, “It’s complicated. Adult stuff.”

“I’m _thirteen._” His younger voice says, affronted.

“Exactly. _Not an adult_\---I don’t care if you’re technically old enough to work now.” He cuts in resignedly, hand up when Bucky opens his mouth to say exactly that. “You’re stayin’ in school. Listen,” he says, looking down on him, “cut your ma some slack, yeah, she’s dealing with a lot at the moment.”

His ma walks back into the room, carrying Jenna. “Lily’s back down.” She says, and dumps the crying baby in his father’s arms without hesitation. She bites out, “Hold your daughter for once, will you? I’ve got fuckin’ ironing to do.”

“Ma!” He snaps in his father’s defence.

“Don’t Bucky.” She warns by the ironing board, keeping her voice even when speaking to him at least.

“Lad it’s fine - what did I just say--”

“--It’s not fine. She can’t talk to you like that, she--”

“I’ll talk to_ my husband_ however I damn well please Bucky,_ you testhma. My testhma_.”

He blinks, startled, but his body continues. “No you can’t just---it’s not his fault that you can’t be happy anymore! He’s not the one with a probl---”

“--_James watch your mouth_\---” His father warns sharply.

“--Why should I?” He shouts, now suddenly angry at them both. Jenna starts screaming loudly, wriggling in his father’s arms. “You two never fucking do!” He’s wearing the collar, not the leather one; the metal one - it fans out like an Elizabethan frame. His wrist clangs off it as he waves in frustration. The sound echoes - _what?_

“That’s enough Bucky Barnes!” His ma shouts, slamming the iron down, finally loosing her temper with him; which she rarely does. The iron abruptly sizzles with steam, obscuring her face. She walks out of the steam holding the iron; she’s not in a white summer dress - she’s in a white coat. It’s not her.

Light sparks off Zola’s spectacles and he slams the still hot iron into Bucky’s chest.

“_Ah!_ ” Bucky chokes, shooting up with shock. He dry heaves, kicking, clawing at his neck. There’s nothing there, no collar, no frame. His Thompson clatters against a crate as he inadvertently kicks it; trying to free himself from his bedroll.

There’s pans clanging in his ears, the back of his head; he’s confined; trapped; his blood’s boiling up like an egg yoke------

“Barnes?”

His head snaps to Falsworth on watch, who just called to him with a sharp but controlled tone. His breath abruptly cools and calms. He’s sweating;_ is he; Christ, is he hot?_

Falsworth raises his eyebrows, casting new shadows on his face, a silent: _you good?_

Bucky swallows and crawls to his feet, “I’m gonna’ take a leak.”

“Take your gun.” Falsworth says, not an order; and tosses him a lit torch. He strikes a match until he can find a spare one in the nearest pack. Bucky’s in the trees when the whiter semi-light replaces the orange flame - has backed himself up against one. He unbuttons his jacket with shaking hands, freeing his neck and collar - he pulls away his shirt and shines the torch on the burning triangular spot on his chest. There’s no blister, no pockets of pus, no new burn, but still it’s pulsing - _pound pound pound_ \---that’s his heart. It’s his heart.

“Oh my god.” He breathes, pressing his hand against his mouth and sinking on his butt. Why? Why? Why can’t Zola just let him have _this_ \- even fighting they’re his _parents_ \- he can’t take them away from him too. _God please, or Gabriel; Daniel; Luke; Michael; whoever, if you’ve never listened to my prayers before listen to this one. Just once will you listen; I’m scared enough already._ He can still smell his own burnt flesh, and though there’s no mark on the outside, he knows his blood is just hundreds of pockets of pus pumping around his person. He’ll never escape the unwelcome parasite within him, he thought he’d maybe managed to a little in Scotland but it’s come back twice as strong; it’s grip claw-like and crippling with fear. He presses his shuddering head into his shuddering knees, silently sobbing for a minute. He breathes in deeply, composing himself; checks his chest again, then buttons up his jacket.

By the time he returns to the dark shadowed camp - they have no fire today - and crawls back into his bedroll he’s composed and compact - the parasite trapped back within him; a cage of his own creation. Falsworth keeps at attention, eyes and ears on the country around them and doesn’t ask any questions. He’s really super good like that. Bucky does the same when he’s on watch and Monty cries out for the men who died under his charge. Like Carter they have an understanding without actually making an explicit understanding.

The sweat on his body cools until he’s as clammy as Zola’s hands and he breathes quietly calm-but-not-calm - squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t sleep; it’s too dark - too quiet - smells too burnt. _I’m sorry, mama. I’m sorry I was so difficult with you even before I caught you that first time._

The first thing he does in the morning is eat the energy tablet he gets with his ration - and right before they settle down in the night he shoves the two extra he saved down his throat; dry swallowing.

“Bucky, did you just--”

“What?” He interrupts Steve so he can’t finish, then says; “I’ll take first watch.”

“Yeah okay.” Steve says after a wary moment. “I’ll take second.” He finishes, so that way he can make sure Bucky actually sleeps afterwards, and make sure he can’t wrangle second watch for himself too by not waking whoever’s next on shift.

. . .

He pretends, but from the extra energy tablet in his pack the next day he’s pretty sure Steve knows he hasn’t.

“You okay?” He keeps asking, a lot.

_No_. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He keeps saying, a lot.

. . .

Eventually Steve follows that with: “Stop lying to me.”

Bucky follows that with: “Mind your own business. I’ll talk if I want to talk, and I don’t. So back off.”

“Fucks sake Bucky.” Steve says, walking away.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: 19TH MARCH 1944

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUr RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

[CENSOR STAMP -** REDACTED]**

TO: REBECCA BARNES FROM: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS  
3421 45 HILLREST ST. NEW JERSEY SENDERS ADDRESS:  
** [REDACTED]**  
DATE: 21STFEBRUARY 1944

* * *

_Becca,_

_How are you? How's the factory life - I heard you might have gotten a promotion? What are you now, a manager? Look at you moving up in the world. How’s Charlie? Still treating you right in his letters?_

_Sorry for all the questions; figured I’d get them all in now seeing as the letters will take longer than the usual. The last one took near a month to reach you and near a month for yours to reach me. Things are okay here - if busy. It’s complicated. I can’t say a lot. _

_Have you talked to Bucky recently? Has he said anything to you?_

_Steve_

* * *

. . .

_“The anesthetic is unstable,” Zola says, “Another dose.”_

. . .

“You not even gonna try and sleep now, Buckaroo?” Dugan says to him one day when he’s on his third day and holding strong-not-strong, eyes dull and shadows deep. A brown haired bearded man flits in and out of his vision, on his side and in his corner.

“You not ever gonna try and not be a fucking asshole?” Is the immediate he gets back. He hears Jones sigh resignedly behind them as he swallows another tablet and downs the mix of powdered Vit-C orange in his canteen.

Dugan slams his hand down on the bonnet of the car they’ve just hidden off road like his ma did with the iron right before her face morphed into the man he hates who gives him the shakes.

“You know what Bucky, you’re really starting to get on my last nerve. You’re pissing me off here--”

“Oh, _I’m_ pissing you off?” Bucky laughs sardonically. “That’s hilarious. Here. Have your fucking cheese back.” He throws it so the sheet of packaged cheese hits Dugan on the square of his forehead. He got his aim from his ma, _be glad it wasn’t a can of peaches asshole._

“Jesus guys, really?” Jones says to them both, but mostly at him as he walks to find Steve obsessing over his maps again. He sticks close, and ignores the glares but pays attention to the frown that says Steve has a new plan for the next base.

“You’re not storming the building alone on your motorbike again.” He cuts in the bud early.

“It _worked_.”

“Barely.” Bucky fires back. “You have a team--”

“--Use it, yeah, I know.” Steve cuts in fondly, but also cavalierly contemptuous. “I’m just saying. It worked.”

“Only cause you have the determination of a rodeo bull with a red cape.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Something ma used to say. You’re too much of a punk to let it fail when it’s your idea is what I mean.” Steve smacks him on the arm. “What?” He parrots back, “it’s true.”

“Yeah okay,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say. I’m thinking of moving in here and here.” He says, motioning the vague directions over the paper, his notebook resting in the center with his large cursive swirling over it. He amends, “after we’ve done recon of course but--”

“--Not too much recon in case they see us coming and split.”

Steve huffs with humour, “You know it’s a little unsettling that you know what I’m thinking before I have a chance to say it sometimes. Next you’ll be talking to Peggy _for me._”

“I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime already. I’m not a carrier pigeon.” He says, leaning his head against the old garden wall they’re sheltering behind from the wind, eyes slipping.

“You actually gonna’ sleep tonight?” Steve asks quietly.

“You ever gonna’--”

“Get off your back?” Steve finishes this time.

“See look, you can do it too. It’s a gift.”

“We should join a circus.” Steve deadpans, “it was just a question, Buck. I’m just checking in with you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“You want me to just stop?” Steve asks disbelievingly.

_“Yes.”_

“I’m not gonna’ do that.” Steve retorts immediately, because of course he fucking does; always has to be Steve Rodger’s way. Bucky groans in annoyance, and Steve’s hand tightens into a fist. “You can’t be pissed at me for trying to look out for you Buck.”

_You can’t be pissed at me for working, Winnie._

_And you can’t be _ _pissed_ _ at me for going out for a break every once in a fuckin’ while George._

_I can and I am Steve,_ Bucky thinks,_ just back off. I’m supposed to be the one looking out for you. Not the other way round._

_. . ._

_“zehn, neun, acht, sieben, sechs,”_

_The light glints off Zola’s glasses._

_“funf, vier, drei,”_

_He’s looking at his watch, counting. Bucky’s eyes drift left, darkening in the corners - his ma starts _ _forward_ _, yelling in panic for him, hair glinting honey in the sunlight._

_“zwei, ein.”_

_The world darkens before she reaches him._

_. . ._

“Jesus, why does everyone want me to talk so much?”

“Because we think it could help.” Gabe says, calmly. He’s speaking softly and sympathetically but staying at a distance - helping him wash and fill their canteens with river water - making sure Bucky has space. “And you used to talk,_ a lot. _It’s still weird not to have you yapping all the time.”

“Don’t tell me you miss it?”

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to deflect. Again.” He retorts, lining up the last canteen as Bucky passes him it, and then starts opening the water purification tablets they’ve collected from the rest of the team. “I’m not getting at you or accusing you of anything bad, Sarge. I’m just saying it helps to talk - it can’t just be made-up stuff if my mom, Louisa, and my brother tell me the same thing. It helps to go back, to talk it out; it’s a form of treatment they use on the front sometimes.”

Bucky sighs, “Have you ever heard of ‘Don’t go picking at scabs unless you want to bleed?”

Jones swallows that in for a second. Bucky stands to go - shaking the canteens to mix them.

“No. Because it’s a really shitty line.” Jones throws out a little late as a last resort. It doesn’t quite hit as solidly as Bucky’s ‘shitty line’ does. “And if that is what your going off Sarge, I’m starting to think you want to bleed.”

Dugan’s not the only one whose insightful.

“Right okay.” He says, turning back to Jones so they can actually have a conversation. He keeps his voice even, because Jones is doing this in private, and unlike two other people this is the first time he’s actually approached this with Bucky.

“Look. There’s shit that went on, yes. I’m not denying that. I’ve talked about it to command, so it’s out there, and I’m dealing with it - in my way. I’m not cracking up in the firefights, or assaults, or dropping the rest of you lot in the shit. I’ve got a handle on it. All I’m asking is for you lot to cut me some fucking slack for five fucking minutes. This thing is me, not you. It’s not your problem. If I drop you in the shitter then it is; and then I’ll involve you. But I haven’t and I’m not going to - this is the way I’m dealing with it - so can you just…”

“Leave you be? Leave you to it?”

“_Yeah_.”

Jones considers it for a moment. “Fine. On one condition.”

“Jesus, what?”

“You said you’re not dropping the rest of us in danger; that you’ve got a handle on making sure that it doesn’t happen - fine - so long as you get a handle on not dropping yourself in danger either.”

“It’s a bit hard to drop myself in danger eight meters up a tree with the squirrels. _Come on_.” Jones halts their progress and levels him with a look. Bucky rolls his eyes and assures. “I’ve got a handle on that too.”

“Get more of a handle on it,” Jones suggests, “do it for your favourite negroe friend.”

“Oh, you mean Joseph back home, I’m sure I can spare a little extra for him.”

“I mean me, you asshole.” Jones shoves him as they start walking back to the abandoned barn they’re staying in tonight. “But good talk though.” He adds after, “I think that’s the most you’ve said to me in three weeks.”

Bucky shoves _him_ this time. “Now who’s the asshole. And I yelled at you the other day to watch where you shit so I don’t step in it.”

“Yelling insults at me doesn’t count.” Jones notes “and it’s not fair, I’m getting Sarge withdrawal it’s been so long since you invested in our friendship.”

“Oh wow,” Bucky adds, “nice. You know what’s not fair? Guilting the guy who got tortured into being nicer to you.”

Jones sprays water out of his mouth, not quite expecting that. He lowers his canteen. “You’re throwing the tortured soul at me now? Jesus, pal.”

“You wanted to talk.” Bucky retaliates with a smirk. “Geez, nothing makes you happy anymore.”

. . .

A man tried to shoot him in the head today. He wasn’t scared, not even close, but he was terrified when the light glinted off Zola’s glasses last night.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that? You have Bucky's version of events from THAT NIGHT when they were sixteen. Steve doesn't know what happened - but you do!
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> Chopin - Nocturne in C# minor CHOPIN, NOCTURNE IN C# MINOR : Frédéric François Chopin, born Fryderyk Franciszek Chopin, was a Polish composer and virtuoso pianist of the Romantic era who wrote primarily for solo piano. 
> 
> K-RATION: The K-ration was an individual daily combat food ration which was introduced by the United States Army during World War II. It was originally intended as an individually packaged daily ration for issue to airborne troops, tank crews, motorcycle couriers, and other mobile forces for short durations. The K-ration provided three separately boxed meal units: Breakfast, Dinner, and Supper. In total three meals provided 2,830 kilocalories (11,800 kilojoules) of food energy and 79 grams of protein, depending upon components. As it was originally intended as an "assault" ration to be issued for short durations, the K-ration was designed to be used for a maximum of 15 meals. 
> 
> C-RATION: The C-Ration, or Type C ration, was a prepared and canned wet combat ration intended to be issued to U.S. military land forces when fresh food (A-ration) or packaged unprepared food (B-ration) prepared in mess halls or field kitchens was not possible or not available, and when a survival ration (K-ration or D-ration) was insufficient. 
> 
> OPERATION DOUBLE CROSS: The Double-Cross System or XX System was a World War II counter-espionage and deception operation of the British Security Service (a civilian organisation usually referred to by its cover title MI5). Nazi agents in Britain – real and false – were captured, turned themselves in or simply announced themselves, and were then used by the British to broadcast mainly disinformation to their Nazi controllers. After the war, it was discovered that all the agents Germany sent to Britain had given themselves up or had been captured, with the possible exception of one who committed suicide.
> 
> Seven Plagues/Joan of Arc/ Atilla : The Plagues of Egypt, in the story of the book of Exodus, are ten disasters inflicted on Egypt by the God of Israel; they serve as "signs and marvels" given by God. Joan of Arc claimed to have received visions of the archangel Michael, Saint Margaret, and Saint Catherine of Alexandria instructing her to support Charles VII and recover France from English domination late in the Hundred Years' War. When notorious warrior Attila the Hun and his massive army tried to invade Rome during the year 452, Pope Leo I met with Attila to plead with him to stop threatening Rome. Many people were surprised that, in response, Attila immediately withdrew his army from Rome. Attila said he left the city because he saw two imposing angels wielding flaming swords standing beside Pope Leo I while he was speaking. The angels threatened to kill Attila if he proceeded to invade Rome, Attila reported.
> 
> MARIME: The vast majority of Romany laws revolve around the belief that the universe is separated into what is clean and what is dirty (marime). Being marime — or coming into contact with marime things — can cause a range of conditions including bad luck, sickness, disease and death. Once an item is classed as marime, they would avoid or limit contact with that thing.


	27. PART 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve, Dugan, Falsworth and Bucky are the chosen few for the mission, reinforcing a tank division’s forward movement into the next Italian town of Roccaserra.
> 
> Bang!-Bang! The white-blue light of a shell slashes Steve’s vision for a second; the first hits the tank and showers out sparks.
> 
> “Halt halt halt!” Pool orders - and Steve runs forward at a sprint, shield covering him. Bullets ricochet. He slams it into the low grate of a building that’s spitting out the high-intensity bullets. The MG42 fires again, again - a whole round - two, but Steve’s blocking the shots; a bunch of men within the firing basement yell as the shells ricochet back. He holds his position so the rest can get to cover, rally and figure out where the hell other is coming from.

** _ **MUSIC: ** _ ** _“UNDER A BLUE BLANKET” BY L.ARDON AND JERRY LIVINGSTON, FOXTROT JAM, RENDITION (FASTER TEMPO): [LINK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLcTDvMC9TI)_

* * *

STEVE

They jump aboard a supply train back to Switzerland from Genoble; once again; bundled up in their coats with the wind seeping in and whipping away through the open doors. Steve relaxes his guard a little two hours in, and has to hold on tight to the loose pages in his tiny sketchpad in case they whip away out the door.

Bucky, sat beside him, ends up leaning into his shoulder an hour in; and when Steve goes to ask him if he’s alright, as always; he pre-empts him with a “I’m just tired, buddy, nothing to worry about.”

It’s a fair statement, they’re all tired; every last one of them - not in the least because their Captain has run them ragged over the last two weeks. Even Steve’s tired - though he’s more exhausted by the sights he’s seen than the action. At least this kind of exhausted is due to actual exhaustion and not malnourishment anymore - thanks to…someone. Maybe even more than one someone. Steve has suspicions.

Even so; Bucky himself would probably be much less tired if he actually attempted a full night’s sleep; which Steve can hardly blame him for not getting with the nightmares, aside from the fact that he doesn’t even attempt to _try_ half the time. Let alone return to sleep after he’s woken himself with a silent freezing of the body, or a jolt, or the occasional yell. He sighs anyway.

Steve however, does, very wisely; decide not to mention that particular thought, and sits there while Dugan and Morita smoke, and Dernier messes with a lighter, until Bucky starts requesting things for him to draw to pass the time.

They start out simple: a dog they saw earlier, skinny and wild; a bombed out church in France still in rubble from the start of the war, and the chaplain Steve had listened to for a few minutes in the shadow of it’s steps before they had to move again. He finds things are easier to draw from memory than they used to be, which shouldn’t surprise him now, but it still does. Steve’s fingers, wearing his winter gloves, are clumsy and so he can’t get in the fine details; but it’s a good way to let the hours go by. For the last half hour Steve’s gone back to his beloved basics of newspaper cartoons, and he starts a new one in the corner.

“That’s tiny.” Bucky says, tapping out Jerry Livingston’s “Under a blanket of Blue” with both hands over his thighs, which despite his tiredness is one of the more upbeat songs Steve’s seen him tapping out in months. “At least draw it a little bigger so I can see.”

He leans his head back again the wall, eyes on Steve’s book, Steve can see from the corner of his eye. He smirks, a lopsided quirk of the lips as he notices Bucky beginning to tap his foot too. He can practically hear the beat in flesh and memory.

“Patience.” Steve iterates, “you’ll see”. He flips the page before Bucky can get a look and starts on the next same corner. He splutters, so Steve elbows him.

“You’re not being very companionable here, butting me out of it.”

“I said you’ll see.” He repeats, already on the third, and then the fourth. Bucky huffs and looses interest, but continues tapping. “For someone who has the self-restraint to sit for hours in the same spot looking through a scope; your attention span is very short.” Steve comments out the side of his mouth.

“It is when my friends are _boring_ me.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Steve says, smirking still; and Bucky bangs his head a little too hard when he decides to include it in the beat he’s got going, rocking it from side to side. “Hum it will you?”

“What?”

“Under the Blanket of Blue. It was one of ma’s favourites.”

“Was it?” Bucky asks curiously, “I didn’t know that.”

“She thought Kenny Sargent was very suave, and probably had thoughts about him I’d rather not be privy too.”

“Burgh, yuck,” Bucky retorts, pulling a face.

“_Exactly._ Hum it. Or sing it, if you know the words?” Which Steve has no doubt he does, if _Steve_ knows the words.

“I’m not serenading you.” Bucky says flatly, “you know I can’t sing.”

“You’re not that bad.” Steve offers, “you’re better than me.”

“_Everyone’s_ better than you.”

“Would you just shut up and hum it for peats sake.”

“I’m nearly at the end--”

Steve cuts that off with, “start again,” so Bucky finally does. He hums as he taps, and it’s slightly faster and more buoyant than the original, but so are most of Bucky’s jazz renditions Steve’s come to notice over the years; tempo a lot less restrained than when he played classical pieces. Steve allows the lyrics to flow over him as he draws; his mother singing it to herself as she cooked and cleaned comes to the forefront.

_Under A Blanket of Blue, Just you and I beneath the starts. _

_Wrapped in the arms of sweet romance, the night is ours._

_Under a Blanket of Blue, Let me be thrilled by all your charms _

_Darling, I know my heart will dance, within your arms._

_A summers night’s magic, _ _enthralling_ _ me so, _

_The night would be tragic, if you weren’t here to share it my dear, Covered with _ _heaven_ _ above_

_Let_ _’s dream a dream of love for two, Wrapped in the arms of sweet romance, _

_Under a Blanket of Blu_

Bucky cuts off with a bark of laughter, finally realizing what Steve’s doing on his seventeenth page.

“Oi, keep it going music man,” Morita says, “I was enjoying that tune there.”

Bucky starts off again, but his humming isn’t quite in sync with the correct movements of his hands, chest shaking with chuckles, and he’s leaning into Steve’s shoulder again - watching Steve create a stupid little flip book on each corner of his unused pages. He’s drawn a funny looking man with an oversized toupee and a big pointed nose walking along with a swing in his step, then a spider sneaks it’s way down the page, eyes big and curious. It pops down and steals his treasured toupee. Bucky has come back into it on the page where the man yells out extravagantly, jumping to try and catch the spider as it runs off with his hair. The man chases it, crawling up along the page, and then walks straight into a web, and gets his nose tangled until he’s stuck. At some point Bucky’s switched to ‘Talk of the Town’, and is onto another jazz number Steve doesn’t know by the time Steve finishes his masterpiece. They flip through it twice. Steve’s grinning with pride as Bucky laughs and tells him he’s a prized artist; and he’ll frame it one day in a museum.

He shows it to the other guys, and after they find out he used to go to life-drawing and knows how to draw swanky ladies they say they want him to draw a striptease flip-book for them_ each._

“Oh, why didn’t I think of that?” Bucky complains afterwards.

“I’m not having naked pin-up girls on every page of my work book,” Steve says, “this does come out when we’re at the planning table you know; it has my notes in.”

“But you’re okay with spider theft?” Dugan says, “I’m seeing some double standards here boys.”

“Oh definitely"

"That’s atrocious, Cap"

"If you really valued us you’ve give us our pin-ups,” and Steve very narrowly avoids having them start chanting ‘_flip-book dames! Flip-book dames_!’ at him for the next half an hour.

In Leichtenstein they find a British agent, or more likely; he finds them, bearing Antonio’s calling card. He offers to stow them away with another SOE agent over the ocean and to Salerno’s Front Line, disguised as correspondence delivery. This apparently is a common operation, and it’s all going on under the Swiss government’s nose. This explains why Peggy suggested returning to here before the 25th. They’re heading to Italy anyway under Philips’ orders from London, so they take it over hitching a ride on a local sailing boat and then navy ship through the Ligurian Sea.

They take a looping route over the ocean; and when Steve looks down there’s Allied navy peppered across the South Tyrhenian Sea the closer they get to Sicily, and more so towards the South-Western coast below Rome. Sicily was Bucky’s first ever landing back in the summer of 43', as the fourth wave of men; then onto the mainland, moving upwards through the countryside. He wonders what it must be like for all of them to return to the Front while not actually fighting on the Front.

The gunfire and heavy artillery is obvious in sound and sight, even as they fly twenty miles from the coast. The Commandos have been so deep uncover in Occupied Territory for so long that he forgets the idea of constant attacks of artillery - all day and all night, which is constant here. When he first came over on the boat with the USO girls they were taken to a secure Allied-held port and driven in to the Paularo base; all perfectly safe, but it didn’t stop Steve from staring out the window - watching the huge plumes of smoke marking up the clear winter sky, even if he couldn’t feel the rumbles that far away. Italy, now that he’s back, will be a whole other field of war than he’s experienced so far.

Steve uses Peggy’s free pass at the airfield when they crawl out from the hidden compartment, and again at the gate in Salerno. The men there frown at it for several minutes, having never seen this type of document before, and Steve advises kindly if they could fetch one of their commanders - as they’ll recognize it for what it is. His squad are not the only ones who have them, the MI5 agent has one too, along with three different passports.

On the radio Philips says: “_Stay put.”_

_“Commander Roberts_,” he speaks to next, who is also in the vicinity, “_give Rodgers’ squad lodgings and a work room._” Then, back to Steve and co. “_The next target is in Italian borders, no point rerouting you back here just to send you out again. We’ll send the details and men to you, and after the mission we’ll fly you back to London. You boys have been doing a fine job, you’re the talk of the town. Stay put._”

“Yes sir.” Steve answers, pride mixing with the feeling in his stomach of _thank god, a break._ They haven’t braked for near three months. Maybe now, with a working kitchen and cook he can get enough hot food in him to fully heal up all the left-over aches spotted about on his person - instead of pushing through them with food that’s still not quite enough. It’s better now than it was though, much better. His stomach had been sitting empty for so long it had long since stopped growling, and day by day he’d felt himself growing weaker as tiredness became a new staple. He hadn’t wanted to complain, as he was already getting more food than the rest - and thought he could spare some every now and again. But then Bucky’s collarbone continued to stick out and the boys would lag after a long day or a long week and somehow_ every now and again_ turned to _all the time._ The extra weight they now carry for his new food share is more than worth it though, for how much stronger he feels again, but it’ll be so good not to have to carry it on his back for hours - and to have something hot and comforting. He can smell pork chops sizzling on the pan across the camp, and creamy potatoes - and most importantly - he can’t smell spam. This is going to be amazing.

Something to look forward to - and for once, it’s not a chance to get his blood up. That is a change, maybe he’s growing as a person?

“You’re not growing, Cap.” Dugan laughs.

“Time’s a changing. I’m getting mature._ I’m getting old._”

Falsworth throws in, “I can see the wrinkles from here.”

“Just for that you’re not getting my chocolate tonight.” Steve says.

“And just for that you’re not getting any hooch tonight either.”

Morita clears his throat behind them. “My hooch, you posh twot. I decide who I give it to.”

“So I can have some?” Steve asks.

“He can’t get drunk, Jim, it’d be a waste.” Bucky says from, _where even is he?_

“Then, no Cap, you can’t.” He grins.

“I could order you.”

They all snort and hoot with laughter, and say together. “Like we’d listen!”

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: 7TH MARCH 1944

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

[CENSOR STAMP - **[CLEARED] **

****TO: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS FROM: REBECCA BARNES  
**[TRANSFERED] ** SENDERS ADDRESS:  
3421 45 HILLREST ST.  
NEW JERSEY

DATE: 27TH FEBRUARY 1944

* * *

_Steve,_

_Charlie says he’s okay, but I can tell he’s lyin’ through his _ _ass-cheeks_ _ trying to keep me sweet. He tells me about the weather and the sea and the green trees and the annoying sand that gets into every hole no matter what he does. But if he’s talking about the sand it means they’ve landed on the beach again - and he’s said nothin' about that. He’s trying not to scare me like he does his mama but I told him to can it and be honest. I’m not falling for it, and neithers his papa who I met the other week. He’s taken my advice and told him to can it too so now Charlies got two of us on him._

_I did get a promotion. I’m still covered in grease, which is kinda’ sexy, but I got more dollar’ in my purse so I’m _ _definitely_ _ not complainin’. The foreman’s a bit of an ass, but I’ve got my eye on him._

_I haven’t spoken to him - not since _ _wherever_ _ the fuck you lot were when you’s were training. But I think he’s writing my mother. Lily said V-Mail came to the house and there’s no one else who would write her I don’t think, but really who knows with her. Why? Is he being funny with you?_

_Becca_

* * *

. . .

He hopes he see’s Peggy again soon, and she’s one of the ones Philips sends on to them. He’s been seeing quite a lot more of her the last few weeks - often an unexpected surprise - but always a great one. His admiration for her has only grown with every brush-by, especially when she nearly crashed that _Opel Kapitän_into him; dead on her feet but victorious - and not the least bit sorry.

He remembers grinning at her when she slammed on the brakes a foot away from his face, daring and reckless; heart swelling in his chest. He’s getting better too - at not embarrassing himself in front of her - and she’s admitted she likes him maybe as much as he likes her. It sends a thrill up his spine every time he remembers it. He’s put girls _off_ for so long it still feels slightly strange to put them _on_ his mind instead - but he supposes in a way he’s always had other things to prioritize. Not like his friend, and it’s not like the girls liked Steve either; before.

_Girls always liked Bucky well enough, that was certain. Even some of those who’d grown up in their block now couldn’t look him in the eye, but blushed and twisted their gloves into knots instead. And so Bucky took a couple of them dancing at the Arcadia; got some kissing in which he ** **liked** ** \- he told Steve he liked kissing ** ** a lot** ** \- but mainly he liked having a partner for the Carolina Shag and downing dime shakes and lemon ices when he was all sweaty, her hand in his. _

_Steve would ask: “What’s it like, then?”_

_All pale skin and put-upon nonchalance, Bucky would say, “Messy. Complicated. Fun.” _

_As tradition Steve would then reply; deducing like a regular Sherlock Holmes: “You like it.”_

_“Well…yeah.” Bucky would admit. “Some - most of the time, it’s just…they get a bit clingy sometimes.”_

_“So do you.” Steve snorts, kicking his shin under the table as Bucky works through the seventh math problem effortlessly and Steve stubbornly ignores his third. “You’re practically plastered to me all day every day. Stuck like glue - I can’t get rid of you.”_

_“Oh shut up.” Bucky snarks, but not seriously, tongue sticking out as he writes. Steve hates Mr McArthy’s homework assignments. Steve can hear his pal's heels click-clacking together as he swings his feet - which is rather distracting - but not something Steve ever addresses. Eyes still on his paper, Bucky finishes: “You know what I mean.”_

_“I don’t, actually.” Steve replies honestly._

_“You could. If you tried. And didn’t run away from everyone in a skirt who gets within five feet of you.”_

_“I don’t run away.” Steve retorts - definitely _ ** _ **not** _ ** _ a whine - putting his pencil down and giving up on the problem. “It’s not running away when they don’t come within ten feet of you, _ ** _ **let alone five.** _ ** _ I can barely get any of the boys to talk to me, let alone any of the dames in class.”_

_“Well fuck the boys. They don’t know what they’re missing.”_

_Steve huffs, trying not to smile. “And fuck the girls too?”_

_Bucky thinks about it a moment. “Depends on the girl.” He decides. “Depends on how well she can bop-swing. I can afford to blacklist a few for your honour, Steve-o.”_

_“You’re an asshole.” Steve tells him to his face._

_“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Bucky says without looking up. “You want help with that problem?”_

_Steve glances down at his still blank page covered frustrated eraser dust. “No.” He replies, because he has some pride - then stares at the problem for a whole of two seconds and realizes he’s not gonna get it. He doesn’t even remember learning how to do it. Oh. He was probably off sick - that’s why. “Fine. Yes.”_

_It practically kills him to say it._

_“You wanna do half my history essay as a trade-off?” _

_The fact that Bucky offers this shows he knows this too._

_“That’s a terrible trade off -” Steve says straight away, “one problem for what will end up being the whole essay.” Bucky scoffs, and Steve scoffs back - mocking - as his pal spins his paper round so his and Steve’s are side by side. He can see Bucky’s working out now. “I know you, you doofus." Steve tells him. "It’ll end up being the whole thing. It’s Custer. You hate Custer. I’m swallowing my pride here by asking for help - you might as well take this once in a lifetime opportunity on its head like a nice person.”_

_“Twenty Hallelujahs and a whole essay on fucking Custer to that.” Bucky mutters._

_“I’m not doing it.” Steve reiterates._

_“Now who’s the asshole?” Bucky retorts back._

_“A lot of work” - was another Bucky-descriptor for the whole topic of girlfriends - which was why he used to switch partners so he wouldn’t lead anyone on and get them thinking about picket fences. People round them always married young, at their ripe age of seventeen - especially if they got themselves in the family way; as they used to say. __Not that Bucky had gone that far and risked that yet - of course. Then_ **_**Colette**_**_ had come, Jesus Christ, and all _ ** _ **sorts** _**_of new stuff happened. _ ** _ **All sorts**_**_. And Steve was never able to escape it._

_After Colette, when he was tanned from that summer and Steve was red and peeling, Steve would ask again. _

_Bucky’d say: “Fucking spectacular. Like - you can’t even believe it, Steve-o.”_

_As always, Steve replies: “You like it.”_

_“So would you.” Bucky throws back, which isn’t an_ '_as_ _always' __but a common enough theme. “Maybe I could set you up. I heard Liza Franklin’s got a thing for blondes.”_

_Steve sometimes makes a face that means he’s considering a ‘maybe’. He knows he does. This time he says: “Please don’t.”_

_“What? You don’t want one now?” Bucky asks, rolling onto his back on the grass, shuffling when it tickles at his lower back. Steve’s stretched out next to him in the park - and Becca’s down the way with her friends - and Madeline Crosby. She keeps glaring at them out of the corner of her eye, but it’s not like she didn’t know they’d be there - Bucky did tell her explicitly he would be keeping his eye on her so she wasn’t stealing anything else to impress the group. God forbid, they do not need for her to get arrested right now._

_(“And anything he doesn’t catch,” Steve said when she tried, and _ ** _ **failed**_**_, to slink past them round the corner of the building. “_ ** _ **I will**_**_.”) _

_(“I hate you both.” Becca replies, voice going high with frustration. “You are _ ** _ **ruining** _**_my street cred!”)_

_(Bucky snorts, and Steve follows innocently with: “Street cred? Oh you have street cred? Good Lord Bucky, did you hear,” he slaps Bucky’s arm in exaggerated false excitement - “she has _ ** _ **street cred.** _ ** _ That’s amazing Becca, _ ** _ **congratulations**_**_.” He smiles at her perfectly, leaning forward. “I’ll claw every last bit away from you to keep your hands out of other people’s pockets. I have no self-restraint. No embarrassment. If it takes rolling on the ground and crying for you to come save me - I’ll do it.”)_

_(“That sounds pretty entertaining.” Bucky says, “can you do it anyway?”)_

_(Steve ignores him, but he’s stifling a laugh. He tells Becca, “you’re going to hate being associated with me.”)_

_(“Urggh!” Becca growls, stomping away. “I already do!”)_

_He motions a ‘I’m watching you’ at Bucky’s sister with his two fingers. She swears at him with a single one - Bucky boos and hisses at her like they’re at a pantomime. Steve see’s her mutter “oh my Christ” and turn sharply away like she doesn’t know them. _

_“You against all that now?” his best friend continues, back to the conversation. “No one’s good enough for the magniloquent saint that is Steven Grant Rodgers, huh?”_

_He smiles at the sky, entertained by himself, Steve can see. There isn’t an answer. When Bucky realizes this he frowns, lifting his head. “Steve?” When he see’s Steve’s eyes are lowered, his eyelashes long and dark against his cheeks, Bucky sits up. “What’s the matter?”_

_Steve swallows, then sighs. “I-I don’t have time for that right now.”_

_“Why?” Bucky demands, knowing there’s more to it. “What’s the matter?”_

_Steve swallows, looks him in the eye and says: “Ma’s sick.”_

_One moment. Two moments._

_“Okay.” Bucky replies after the third, taking it in stride. Just like math, he likes to solve problems. Work out what equation to use; what path to take, and get the answer; the result of the problem. Steve’s a problem solver too - but in a different way - more an all rounded circle than a step by step. “I can get my ma to make her dumpling soup again and bring it over to--”_

_“Not " Steve licks his lips, “not my kinda’ sick. The coming and going, I mean I mean _ ** _ **sick** _ ** _, Buck. She hasn’t said anything but…I… I think it’s TB."_

_TB._

_They know what TB means; they know what that means for Sarah; what it could mean for Steve and his constitution. He’s not even eighteen yet dammit - he’s still got a week. This isn’t fair._

_“This isn’t a problem you can solve.” Steve says._

_“Well….um…” Bucky’s lost for words for a moment. “Well, what can I do?”_

_It’s such a lame question. Such a lame response. A lame everything. His best friend knows it too. Steve’s expression breaks into a heart-broken laugh. Steve, voice quiet and cracking up says: “I don’t know.”_

He needed to look after his ma then - he didn’t have time for girls, or trips out, or even for best friends for a while; when he was so deep in it. He needs to win_ a war,_ now, but he reckons maybe he can make time- now he’s got a reason - and now he’s got the incentive.

Peggy _good __goddamn_ Carter’s smart, tough, and beautiful; but mostly Steve will never forget how she believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself.

Her…it seems, apparently,_ admittedly_; mutual admiration didn’t appear with his muscles either - it lingered afterwards but began before. The men tease him about her, call her Steve’s sweetheart - but never in front of her he notices, which tells him they are definitely scared of her. This is something that brings him a perverse amount of joy. And it’s not like that, not yet, but with each smile he encroaches out of her the feeling that it could be grows.

Bucky keeps telling him to make a move, because of course he does. Even before Peggy ‘conversationed’ him in Switzerland he’d still made it is own holy mission to hook Steve up somehow, someway.

He prefaced this most recent conversation by dropping down beside him with a “Don’t tell me you’re pining again.”

Halfway through the conversation Steve’d admitted: “I don’t want to scare her off.”

He’s normally always a forward-thinking-forward-acting kind of guy - but not with dames. He’s always been too awkward, too unfamiliar, too worried about pushing it too far and causing offence.

The first time Bucky had ever dragged Steve on a double date was after they’d moved in together and Steve couldn’t use the excuse that his ma was waiting up, or that he didn’t want her to ask questions. It was the summer Bucky was still working at the restaurant on the water-front for the tourist season, waiting tables before the dock-work, and Steve painted signs - until he got woozy up a ladder one day and took a tumble; then he got in at the local printing press until he started classes. The New Deal had really pulled through for them for a few months, and they; or Steve especially, qualified. They’d been seeing extra cash in their pockets for the first time before Sarah’s late medical bills came in.

Bucky’s girl was called Charlotte or more accurately _‘Charlie’_ and Steve had joked that he liked his C names; Colette, Carla and now Charlie, and he’d just shrugged it off and said maybe he just liked girls with nicknames, like him, instead.

They’d been going steady for _nearly_ two months, which at the time (after Colette) counted as a long relationship in his books, and she’d invited along her friend Betty so Bucky invited Steve along for good measure with far too much glee, a lot of prodding and a fair amount of blackmail. Betty was nice - pretty and slight with strawberry blonde hair braided down her back, while Charlie had wild curly dark hair, and she and Bucky looked like a right pair together. Steve didn’t want to mess it up the first time he was really meeting either of them properly, and the first time for once that he wasn’t third-wheeling.

Suffice to say - he messed it up. Between tripping up the stairs in front of the movie theatre and having a coughing fit in the middle of the film, Steve didn’t leave a very good impression. He got too engrossed in the film and not in Betty - and somehow managed to eat all the popcorn.

After the film Bucky had kissed Charlie under the show-times, right there in public with his hands on her waist, while Steve and Betty stood awkwardly at the side until Betty cleared her throat and they broke apart, flushed and grinning. Charlie looped her arms round his neck, whispered something in his ear, then released. Bucky turned to wave them both off on their way home.

_“Do they do they not want us to walk them home?” Steve had asked after, “we should walk them home.”_

_Bucky pats him on the shoulder, “best not pal, her pop’s picking them up round the corner. I asked.”_

_“Oh, so that’s why you were necking round here then, were you?” Steve blurts, red faced and still eighteen._

_Bucky snorts, and swings an arm round his shoulders, _ _pulling_ _ him down the street the other way. “Jealousy’s not a good look Steve.”_

_“It’s not I’m not jealous!” Steve splutters._

_“Yeah yeah, I know. Really.” Bucky waves off, but is honest in it; then admits, a little flushed himself. “And, yes.”_

_“Had a run in have you?”_

_“He’s not my biggest fan, I’ll say that and that alone. Wasn’t really feeling getting glared for holding her hand let alone doin’ anything else.”_

_“God forbid.” Steve mumbles, imagining how fathers can get with their _ _daughters__. He dreads to think how Mr Barnes will be when the girls are old enough to date - though he’s pretty sure Becca’s got her eye on a couple already - not that he’ll clue the man in on_ **_**that ** _ ** _suspicion. He and his pal walk together down the street for a little while, and Steve awkwardly says: “that didn’t go very well.”_

_“Didn’t it? I thought I was doing pretty well.”_

_“Not everything’s about you, you narcissist.”_

_Bucky shrugs. “I didn’t know you liked popcorn that much.”_

_“I hate you.” Steve snaps, pushing and further stomping away in a sudden mood._

_“Steve!” Bucky laughs behind him, arms up in a wave. “I was just joking!”_

_Steve knows that full well, but he’s flushed and embarrassed, and he did the _ **_**one thing **_**_he didn’t want to do._

_Just as he reaches the corner of the block, Bucky yells: “Well, do you wanna’ get a drink?” _

_Steve stops; glances back at him. “Yes.” He decides, returning to Bucky’s side, who ruffles his hair in an unhelpful noogie as they walk. Steve wrestles himself out of it, just in time to walk into the door; which does not help the _ _reputation_ _ he’s already racked up in this bar when he’s drunk. It’s not the nicest place - but its one of the few that’ll turn a blind eye to them pretending to be older than they are._

_Bucky spends the next hour and a half “teaching him how to treat girls right”, until Steve gets himself out of his mopey state and into his revenge state, and when they leave he trips Bucky so_ ** _ ** he** _ ** _ falls into the doorway this time. He also falls into another drunk fella who says “lets take it outside you nipper”, and Steve replies “yeah, lets!” to Bucky’s long suffering groan - but even so he lets Steve get the last punch of the night in. Suffice to say - Charlie was also not impressed with the bruised cheek Bucky wore for their next date._

_“Okay so,” Bucky broaches a week later, “Charlie’s friend Edie is in town ”_

_“Does Charlie hate her friends?” Steve _ _interrupts_ _ from the window sill._

_“Wha of course not.”_

_“Then why does she keep agreeing to let you try and set them up with me?”_

_Bucky looks at him dully; “Oh were having a self shame day, are we?”_

_“No, I’m just saying ”_

_“You’re coming.” Bucky _ _interrupts__, grabbing his towel and heading for the shower. “Be ready at seven!”_

_“Bucky!”_

_“At seven Steve!” Bucky yells through the door before it closes. “Use my gel - and you have paint on your nose.” He runs for the bathroom mirror at that, and does as he’s told. He’s ready at ten to. His friend’s still fixing his hair by the sink._

Bucky laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Pal,” he practically vibrates, “that dame is not the type of dame to ever scare off. She’s unscareable.”

“Yeah,” Steve has to allow. “Maybe. Probably.”

“Would you just kiss her and get it over with?”

“Will you just stay out of my love life?”

That just makes Bucky laugh more.

“What?” Steve questions, rolling his eyes but somehow also pleased that Bucky’s apparently in one of his giddy nostalgic moods.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” he says dramatically, hand on heart: “that Steven Grant Rodgers, the guy who turned down so many dates its in the double-digits; who once told me all depressed and the like; that the closest he was ever going to get to a pair of boobs was in drawing class - _now admits he has a love life._ Someone get me a fan; I might swoon.”

“I hope you hit your head on the way down.” Steve fires right back, throwing his sketchbook at him, which then Bucky refuses to give back. While Steve immensely loves Bucky’s brighter days, he’s unreservedly annoyed by him too.

. . .

** _ _ **

26th February 1944 - ADMIRMAL RADIO (CBS) - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

_World news today, brought to you by the Admiral Corporation; makers of Admiral Radio; America’s smart set. _

_DOUG: A Finnish communication reports that 600 Russian planes bombed Helsinki last night _ _causing_ _fires and heavy damage. The raid lasted nearly 12 hours, the _ _longest_ _and heaviest air attack of the war. Red Armies have broken into the outer __defences__of Piscoff and are threatening that key communication centre. And the Russians are only fifty-nine miles from Augusto, a rail and highway junction connecting Piscoff, Warsaw and Berlin. Now for news for the fighting in Italy and an interview with one of our fortress gunners - Admiral radio takes you to Naples; John Bailey reporting._

_[STATIC]_

_[BEEPING----STATIC---DISTORTED SPEAKING 01:23 -- 2:09] _

“Twelve hours of bombing -” Falsworth murmurs at it’s side as it spits static. “I mean - _bloody hell._ I thought the Blitz was bad. The Russians do not fuck around.”

“No they do not.” Steve utters himself.

_[EXPLOSION ---STATIC]_

_DOUG: The signal from Naples is not up to Broadcast standard. The Italian battlefronts are still rather quiet today. Our troops repulsed two small German attacks in the Casino sector and other German stabs in an effort to---_

Their radio falls into shadow.

“Wondering if you ‘American Heroes’ are free for an advance on the line.” A fellow by the name of Lieutenant Rollins, as tall as Mr Barnes used to be, asks. He’s under Colonel Robert Peel. The derision in the question is clear.

Just for that Steve bristles up, determined, without showing it outwardly.

“In the trenches or out, sir?” He clarifies. They’re free until Philips’ reinforcements arrive; and these men already knew that considering Steve’s already asked if they needed assistance anywhere. He was waved off quite pompously. Things change it seems, even if they are approaching him as if for the first time; acting as though Steve’s men are being lazy.

“Out. Advancing on two miles and into the next few towns, we’re down men on this particular manoeuvre - our first wave are blocked in the second field-line.”

Steve stands, “Show us where.”

. . .

Steve, Dugan, Falsworth and Bucky are the chosen few for the mission, reinforcing a tank division’s forward movement into the next Italian town of Roccaserra. He’d wanted to take his full team, specialized as they are - but is told they want Army men, not armed civilians, so Dernier (despite his French and Commando training) is out; and Jones was point-blank refused.

The excuse was no excuse at all. “My men won’t fight with a negroe. Those people are supposed to be segregated.”

_Those people._ Steve bristles, and tries to argue; but unlike the SRR he has little power here. Jones’ arm is still healing though, and he struggles to bend it at full flexibility considering he’s barely given it a chance to actually heal. It’s something to cover the side-line with.

“Keep working on it for now.”

He’d nodded, but outside of normal earshot Jones snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the reason.”

Morita sighs on the other side of him. “Unfortunately Cap can’t win every battle, as hard as he tries.”

“And he did try.” Bucky says honestly.

“Yeah, I know he would’ve.” Jones replies.

“I take it that also means I’m probably out.” Morita says.

Steve had wanted to turn, go back round the corner and say no; but then that would have proved the point that Jones’ arm wasn’t the reason, even if he already knew it. And it turned out - the answer is yes - Morita is also out. It’s_infuriating__._ Steve’s not going to leave those men undermanned and vulnerable - but it doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it - and - a part of him really wants to prove Rollins’ attitude wrong. He wants to rub it in his smug Mississippian face.

“Keep that up and you’ll set him on fire, Cap.” Dugan says. “I can feel the heat from ‘ere.”

They’re under the command of Staff Sergeant Pool, nicknamed ‘War Daddy’ - the tank platoon commander of 1st Company, 32nd Armoured Regiment, who Steve easily bows to from his experience. He commands a 76 Sherman tank with two Corporals, a Private First Class and Technician Fifth Grade in the hold; and three other tanks on side. Fifty men on foot follow them.

The battle starts in a torn up and already burning field. The first Sherman rolls over a hedge of bushes; radio’s on.

“Right on, right on.”

“Alright here we go - grab stick, grab stick<strike> "</strike>

"Yep, yeah that’s perfect Judson - go straight on, straight on.”

“Wheels on the ground, wheels on the ground, keep an eye out!” Pool orders, upper-body braced out the tank top, motioning with his hand. Steve and the fifty others follow in formation right behind, using it as cover.

There’s American men low to the ground spread across the field, purposely not moving; stuck, guns pointed towards the treeline. He waves a hand up, “over here! Here!” He calls, and a Private, hand keeping his helmet on his head, breaks from the formation to help grab one and get to cover. This man’s been playing dead for six hours, and soon enough, they have him.

“Slow, slow, slow.” S-Sgt. Pool orders.

“We got bodies.” Someone else says on the radio.

It’s true. In the turned up mud; there they are. There’s three trucks on fire too - orange in the dull washed landscape. The tank rolls by, and close to twenty men are able to roll to cover either side of the Sherman tanks. Steve helps a solid three up, “ up, up.” He orders to the rest as they roll.

“Forward! Forward! Watch your spacing.”

The smoke coming off the trucks pollutes the sky in black clouds. The platoon moves like a well-oiled machine together; communication constant.

"Left stick, left stick” Sgt. Judson orders his crew from #2 Sherman. More men roll and fall in, and Steve and the boys help them get in place, moving in two single lines.

“Let’s go, let’s go, lets go.” Dugan orders beside him.

Pool has his radio to his mouth again; and his outside gunner is armed with his eye in the scope just behind and to the right of his helmeted head. He is #1 Sherman. Steve is behind #2 Sherman with Dugan, Bucky behind #3 Ludwig, Falsworth behind #4 Ludwig.

“Ludwig 3, right stick, right stick - you’ve got troops on the ground!”

“_Fuck! _right stick, right stick, _goddammit_!” Their commander orders, and the tank sharply turns, tread narrowly skimming the American men stuck low to the ground. Steve can’t see Bucky’s formation from here, currently walking through the thick smoke clouds.

“Get your head out of you ass!” S-Sgt. Pool shouts at the driver, pointing.

“They weren’t fuckin’ payin’ attention.” Judson curses out in his southern drawl from in front of Steve. The Ludwig rolls over with mechanical clicks, and those troops roll to cover too. The quiet line of the radio says:

“...all line. They are just down of position…” it cuts out as someone speaks over it.

The exterior gunner waves one hand down behind at them; a warning. “Get down! Get down!” He shouts into the barrel.

_Bang!-Bang! _the white-blue light of the shell slashes Steve’s vision for a second; the first hits the tank and showers out sparks. Again. Again, like the 4th of July - in the eye of the storm - everywhere - and through the show - a shot strikes past at an angle. Steve swings an arm and pulls several men from the left line more centre - the shell steaks past him. The guy behind him isn’t so lucky - the shot spearing his chest. He’s down. Another line streaks above their heads.

“Get down! Get down!” Steve and the other infantry Sergeant behind #1 Sherman, walking backwards, order at a shout. They all drop lower. The tank showers sparks again, metal-struck. The missed shots fired out from dig-outs across the field skim above their heads and sides.

“Dillard, hit that machine gun.” S-Sgt. Pool orders calmly over the radio to his bow gunner. The trunk rotates, aiming.

“Hold ”

“ Dillard ”

“_On one_!” It fires; white smoke explodes out of the muzzle._ God that’s different to hearing the regular swwwiisshhh._ Blackened soil explodes up - there’s no conformed hit. The Germans fire an entire round at them - _bangbangbangbang bang_ \- not a second in between. Blue-white streaks tear through the air and keep going. Sherman #1 reloads, “turning…_hold_. Fire.”

“_On one_!” And _BANG._

BUA _BANG. _

Looking through his reticule scope; the gunner says. “She’s fried. Target destroyed.”

_Is she? __Is__ it?_ Its not the same being behind and not out front and ahead of the line. He feels blind. The forward advance is only visible - controlled - by the tank crew; not him but _you’re not in charge_ \- he reminds himself._ You’re infantry here; and this is not a Hydra target. _This field’s so big he can’t just run and hope to dodge gunfire - even he knows that’s undeniably _insane._

The bow-gunner inside #1 Sherman laughs. Something clicks all the way across the field, and Steve hears a German accented. “Schießen!”

“_Fuck!_” S-Sgt. Pool swears into the radio, ducking. It streaks over his head. “Engine tight, eighteen turn left.”

“It’s first left.” Judson shouts to confirm his own guesstimate. The Germans shout orders; Steve behind the tank orders the men lower. “They’re firing again-” he tells the infantry Sergeant across from him.

“How can you"

“I can hear them.”

“Schießen!!” The shell explodes out, a sharp ping -_ oh shit what_ \- Steve jerks automatic - it spears off in a jet of light high in the sky with a juddering sound_ w--o--wow._

“Just a ricochet.” Ludwig #3 says, and pushes forward. The men behind it are ducked as low as they can go. “We’re okay.”

“Bullshit!” S-Sgt. Pool snaps. “That’s a ground high-velocity gun. I can hear it whistlin’!”

Now that's a problem. That will spear through the tank armour like a knife through warm butter if it hits a target. And there's four targets to hit. #3 Ludwig and #4 spit out directions on the radio, and when Steve cranes his neck he can see they both have binoculars.

“Got it.” Pool says, “Naut fifteen.”

“Clear!” The bower gunner within shouts.

“Fire!” Pool orders.

“_On one_!”

Off it goes.

A much louder explosion - Steve reckons that’s a hit. The exterior gunner lets up too - his gunfire coming out in jets of red. He’s moving on the swivel, firing along the line of trees - the two Shermans reload; fire again.

_"On one!"_

The rest join in. All the bow gunners, all the tanks. Steve tries not to flinch at the cacophony of sound, even louder in his ears. With it alone he can picture the huge black smoke, the orange fire; the burnt toppling trees as they whistle in the air and thud into the dirt.

_“On one!_” _Bang!_

“Okay, hold fire, hold fire.” Pool orders to Steve’s right in #1. “Target destroyed.”

_Click - Load._ It’s not the only one.

“Second artillery! Second artillery!” Steve shouts at full volume. Pool looks over, as does Bucky and Falsworth; who shout the same to their own tank commanders. “Second artillery!” Steve keeps yelling, and Pool definitely hears him; has had Steve’s physiology explained to him.

“Brace!” They yell together right as the Germans

“Schießen!”

fire out. Pool flinches, the shell barely missing his hatch. “Another gun! Who’s got eyes on it?”

A disconcerting discord of sound - Steve can’t pin it down just by ears alone; the men either side of him are coughing from a cloud of smoke; all the tanks frantically reloading; shouting, the loaders working at incredible speed. The platoon radios are speaking incessantly; constant communication.

“Eyes on the body.” Judson says from in front of Steve. _Yes._ Soil explodes behind Steve’s line.

“I don’t see shit.” Pool says as the #3 Ludwig and #4 are trying to target through their binoculars. #3 Ludwig and #2 Sherman point gunners together - who start shooting - giving a location to Pool and the others.

“Hands on deck, eighteen.”

“Got it!” Pool replies sharply, “head to ten, eighteen, disperse, right--”

“Rug rug rug right”

“Reverse-reverse”

"Motherfuck--" Enemy fire, high-velocity, spears through the side of #4 Ludwig. "_Shit shit_" Smoke blooms out the side, and it cranks a second, but doesn't catch. The tank is still operational, but Steve hears the loader die inside, caught through the chest. "_Harry, shit--Harry_!"

“Right stick, right stick”

“Dillard!” Pool orders, “fire!”

“_On one_!”

Steve’s looking at the tank to the right of him this time. The shell fires out red-white; and smoke - two of them from the sound of it. Another shell goes off into the trees - and another.

“Fire!” #3 Ludwig orders, "_on one!_" and again. The sound is more deafening than all the others - interspersed with the sizzle of sparks. It’s a hit. There’s a moment of silence. One gunner keeps firing. Pool says into his radio; “all tanks start squirting that treeline. Let’s light them up.”

All exterior gunners, all bow gunners, all interior gunners fire as one into the treeline and into the tops of foxholes before it; the line of tanks travelling as a single entity; perfectly organized, perfectly controlled. Steve can only follow on as reinforcement in their midst. It’s quite a thing to behold. Steve hears from inside #1 Sherman the driver order the new kid:

“Hey! Start shooting!”

“Wha-what do I shoot at?”

“The Nazis you dumb fuck!”

_Poor kid_, Steve thinks, right as the boy compresses the trigger for the first time. Steve follows in form.

“At the hole, at the hole - lets mow these bastards over.” #3 Ludwig says, and Steve promptly hears their tread roll over a line of men with a squelch of flesh.

“All tanks, hold here. Hold here.”

The movement stops, the gunners up top fire, aiming for the foxholes dug all over the field. The Germans’ are all ducking down and swearing, avoiding the red jetted bullets.

“Get your boys to the fight!” Pool orders, taking hold of his own mounted Browning.

“Flight out!” Each infantry Sergeant at the front orders. “Marching fire!”

_Here we go._ Steve emerges. Steve fires; shield on his back, Thompson in his hand. They fire at the gunners, line steady and advancing - they’re winning. The force their way through the trees - moving forward until they hit the paths again, approaching the dusty towns.

The infantry fall back in line with the tanks again, thirty six of the fifty they started with, plus thirty recovered men. #3 Ludwig and #4 move off to another allying town with the extra men, and Sherman #1 and #2 continue. The commandos stick with the Shermans, Pool and Judson in hatch command; Judson in second position.

As they approach on the well trodden road they pass a abandoned car, and drawn cart; and two bodies hanging from the phone lines by their necks. They’re wearing wooden signs.

“They got signs round ‘heir necks. What d’the signs say?” Someone calls out from #1 Sherman.

“I’m a coward and refused to fight for my country.” Pool reads, then looks back at #2 Sherman.

His driver turns to the new kid and explains, “The SS do that. Let them rip themselves to pieces, I say.”

“It’s not just SS here though.” Steve says. “It’s not Germany, not just Nazis. It’s not themselves they’re ripping to pieces.”

_RADIO TRANSMISION: Baker Six-One-Two-Six. I got eyes on the town. We’re ready to _ _initiate_ _attack._

_BAKER SIX: Baker Six copies. Initiate your attack. Me and my boys will hit them from the south. Over and out._

“We split up here,” Pool says, “1413 you take left. Judson you’re with me. Stay off my ass.“

The troop Sergeant behind #1 Sherman jogs out, pointing across the way and ordering his squad. “Check those sills.”

The men fan out in military manoeuvres, clearing the way and the first square. Vehicles and wood are parked and scattered haphazardly at the entrance of the first buildings, and local men in suits raise their hands as an Italian Resistance member in a brown jacket herds them out of a doorway. First area: clear. They move on and out.

Steve hears local women but doesn’t see them - other than the flash of a some dress fabric before two figures disappear round a corner.

“You’ve pushed through urban territory before, right?” Pool queries.

Steve barely holds back with, _that’s our speciality_. “Yes. Towns, villages, and compounds. High level.” He explains.

Pool nods. “Take point. And if you catch wind of anything with those dog ears of yours - get on it, get warning us.”

“Dog ears is an understatement.” Dugan grins, “those things are fucking diabolical.”

“I’m seeing that.” Judson grins. He seems the type Dugan would get on with. They call him ‘Cowboy Judd’ behind his back and to his face - a nickname that suits him very well Steve would say; even if he’s wearing a helmet and soot on his face instead of a cowboy hat and trail dirt. “'Ey,” he says after, “isn’t one of yours a sniper? He here?”

Bucky raises an arm up behind him.

“Sharpshooting?” Pool asks, “you got your rifles with you?” Bucky nods, “how good are you?”

“Fucking diabolical.” His friend says with an entirely straight face. Dugan snorts, loudly. 

“Might be an asset in this environment, if you see an advantage. Move up. Rodgers, you need to spot him a perch?”

“I trust him to find a secure one. Better than I can point out.” He replies, then to Bucky; “You know what to do.”

Bucky nods, eyes roving. It’s wan and smoky this close to the action, colours dulled to greys in the early spring. They roll round several streets, and several corners towards the town square; it’s a ghost town. Looks like the Germans and still standing Italians have moved off in a retreat while the rest hide inside. There’s a few bits of wood in the road still burning. The infantry passes under and beside several arches.

“Clear the alley!” Pool orders.

“Keep moving tack. Go.”

“Gordo, punch through that wall of smoke.” They pass by a large fire left unattended, and through the smoke obscuring the sight ahead.

“Copy.”

“Okay hard left, nine o’clock. Nine o’clock."

“Move up!”

They come across a local as they turn the next corner. It’s an old man with a walking stick and hat, hobbling along the cobbled pavement.

“Rudy, halt halt.” Pool tells his driver up front, and the old man turns to talk to them.

“Alright hold here.” Judson says from behind. Both tank treads rumble to a halt.

“Ciao.”

“Dove sono I tedeschi? Sono andati avanti?” (****Where are the Germans? Have they moved on?****)

The old man shakes his head, lifts an arm to point - his head explodes like a balloon with a soft pop. Before he even hits the ground they’re yelling “sniper!”

“Now look, you jinxed it!” Bucky shouts as all the men run behind the tank or duck against walls.

“To cover! To cover!” Steve shouts, ignoring him. “Get down!”

Pool starts shooting, then breaks off to talk into his radio. “Dillard follow my burst.” He says, and fires again into the second floor of the town hall.

“_On one_!” The glass of the window smashes, and on Steve’s orders they emerge from behind. There’s a lone shirt still flapping on the line between the corner buildings. With distant shouts, the enemy starts firing out at them from the rubble. Steve tosses his shield - it clangs off three, breaking the fire and cluing the others in on the locations.

“Fire on that window!”

“Schaargh!” A German officer yells, getting hit with the others. “_Arrrrggghh-aaa-hhhgghhh!_”

“Come on, move out!” Steve orders. “Keep moving.”

The tank rumbles forwards, Steve’s eyes flick from side to side, awareness peaked.

There’s graffiti on the walls - over the top of a swastika someone has scrawled_L'Italia è ancora in piedi!_, and somewhere else:_DIE__ FOR AMERICA AND SAVE THE TOMMY._

Then he comes to _Ein volk! Ein Reich! Ein Fuhrer! _Opposite this, round the corner is a ---is a body, again, hung by the neck. Its a child, a boy; can’t be more than fifteen. Probably even fourteen, or maybe thirteen - but no older. He’s hanging from the rafters; grey and broken - and he’s wearing a wooden sign. It has the same message.

And Steve is _done._ He’s fucking_ done._

One of the men in front of him slows, and looks back.

“Keep moving.” Steve orders straight away.

“Check that doorway!”

Bucky bashes his shoulder into the door and disappears up it. Steve lets him go. Dugan covers from just behind, Winchester aimed at the broken rubble on the second floor. The man before him goes down in a choke.

A white shot fires to the right of Steve - he turns lightening quick to witness it spear through the chest of another man - exploding a wall lantern above a doorway. The white shot becomes a whole round of white shots - and they take the man and splinter his body apart. He catches at least ten before Steve slams his shield out to block them.

“Get low!” He yells, and battens down to the ground before they sweep the fire down to take out his legs. A second lot comes from somewhere else - MG42s - the both of them, and on the other side of the tank one takes off a man’s legs at the knees, dropping him.

“Halt halt halt!” Pool orders - and Steve runs forward at a sprint, shield covering him. Bullets ricochet. He slams it into the low grate of a building that’s spitting out the high-intensity bullets. The MG42 fires again, again - a whole round - two, but Steve’s blocking the shots; a bunch of men within the firing basement yell as the shells ricochet back. He holds his position so the rest can get to cover, rally and figure out where the _hell_ other is coming from. His shield vibrates, he holds strong - a hand appears. Someone shouts “was zum teufel” from inside. The hand tries to stab him in the leg through the grate. He stomps on it, hard.

“Second one - where’s the second one?” Judson shouts, as others open fire trying to locate the second gun. “Anyone got eyes?”

Several pops come from the building behind him; third floor. Round the corner under an arch; the second MG42 cuts out. _Well t__hank you Bucky_, Steve thinks, and glances over his shoulder at Pool. He raises an eyebrow, cants his head at what his shield’s covering. Pool’s mouth pulls into a small smirk, and hunkered low he says into his radio. “Hey Judd, you see that Kraut stinger in the cellar on my left - Rodgers is kindly plugging the hole.”

“Yep, I see 'em.”

“Mind giving him what for.”

“We’ll slap him around a little bit for you.” He replies lowly so the enemy can’t hear. Pool lowers himself down and closes the hatch.

“Buckle up - Rodgers!”

“I’m ready.” With one breath he spins, skidding across the floor and prancing over the rubble. He slams his shield round the corner under the arch - right as they’ve found replacement operators for the second MG. Judd fires from his main cannon. The cellar behind him explodes ridiculously, showering them with stones. Rubble pings off Pool’s closed hatch. Steve can hear yells and whimpering coming from the interior apartments from those hiding, and he also hears Pool mutter “Goddamn” - but is too busy fighting off the six in this cellar drop; more open; no grate. One at the back goes down before he can reach him, courtesy of his favourite sharpshooter. He slams the last one - and the guy rockets back, this one an SS solider; all very dusty. He leaves them in the dark hole - he has a job to do. When he returns Pool is looking at Judd with a look that very clearly says, _‘seriously?’_

The Texan shrugs, “What?”

Pool shakes his head, and levels his own Browning again, radio in one hand as always. “Alright Gordo, forward.”

“Fuckin' eyes up.” Judson orders himself, pointing with two fingers to the gunner behind him. He nods at Steve. “Everywhere we go.”

Dugan to his side bends down to check the collapsed men on the floor. He shakes his head at Steve, and pats the dead man on the shoulder. They move forward again; a slower pace than Steve’s used to, but no less effective. They come across several more scuffles, and Steve mostly deals with them, and so keep going.

“Gordo, hard right. Three O'clock. Beware. Judd, you take the far end, you cover our tail.” They approach another town square, and Steve listens; holds up a hand. Pool’s eyes go to him.

“Auf meinen befehl!”_ Yeah, oh yeah. He’s right_. Steve motions quickly with his hands; a K, a W, a K; and then the number thirty. KwK30 armament. Pool nods, understanding. “Where?” He mouths before they cross the corner.

“Dress shop.” He returns. Pool nods, relays it on the radio.

“Bereit!” They round the corner. “Ziel!” Steve moves. “Fuerur!” He jumps, and slams the shell with the shield so it ricochets off higher. It skims the tank in a shower of sparks, Pool ducking down before it can turn. “Engine tank, first left. Lets put a torpedo in that ground floor.” They load, and Steve darts left too, away from the firing line - he briefly sees Bucky in a flash, running to another perch it seems.

German shouts: “Fur when read”

_“On one_!” The dress shop bursts into flames; and a moment before it all bursts there’s a bright yellow backdrop to black silhouetted mannequins. Then it disappears in smoke, broken glass and a huge uproar of screaming men. They emerge out of the smoke - and a Private nearest to Steve under the arch raises his gun. The man next to him lowers the muzzle.

“Nah, nah; no need. They’re cookin.” The men are on fire. Screaming. Begging.

Steve goes to speak in argument, mercy on his mind - but the tank gunner cuts off his chance - firing jets of red through the smoking men to finish them.

“Good shootin’ kid.” Pool says to the new gunner in his Sherman. “Keep stacking them up.”

“Shoulda’ let ‘em burn.” The driver says from inside as a response.

The bullet holes are glowing, and billows of smoke feed off from them into the musky air. This is war. Both tanks turn and move forward, and Steve orders the same of the infantry. They clear the area; and when they return a man has emerged holding a white sheet tied on a stick. A surrender. _Thank god,_ Steve breathes, and raises his hand up to identify himself as the commander until #1 Sherman rounds the corner.

“Come here!” Out of the corner of his eye he’s aware of a muzzle locking onto the man from the opposite building, and Dugan levels his gun at the man too. He’s in civilian clothes; late forties to fifties; he has a fascist arm-band on - but not a swastika. When he speaks its in Italian, which Steve is not yet affluent with. Pool rounds the corner still abroad #1 Sherman, and he is fluent. They have a conversation, and the man begins to wave out what's left of the troops.

“Hey Judd,” Pool adds, “load an eighteen; get ready to put it in that hole if these people want to test us.”

“My pleasure.”

“Check the door, check the door”

It clicks open and the first - it’s a girl, who can’t be more than fifteen, and then an eleven year old helmeted boy, and a twelve, then thirteen - _oh, Christ,_ all dressed in fatigues, hands up. They look _terrified__._

“Oh geez” Falsworth utters.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Dugan curses behind him.

“It’s a bunch of kids!”

Steve steps forward, waving in reassurance as best he can. “It’s okay. Come out.”

“Separate - come on come on!”

The man keeps calling to them in Italian; more and more come, and now Steve can see locals poking their heads out of windows, watching. Twenty, thirty, forty - and Steve and the others wave them across the square. Some of them can’t be older than twelve.

“Why you looking so sour, huh? What you got?” One man quips, shoving them - Dugan snaps at him, pushing him back, while also keeping an eye. Some are older, almost men, or tall enough to be if not for the childhood fat still holding onto their chins - and then on an actual man - an SS officer.

Steve hardens, immediately stomps towards the man in the sling.

“Is he the one hanging kids?” Pool asks the man with the flag before he can. The man follows his gaze, glasses smeared with dust. He holds Pool’s eye. “Si.”

Steve makes a decision, a decision he couldn’t make last time. So does Pool it seems.

“Hey, shoot that guy.” He orders,_ casually_. “Yeah him, the SS cocksucker with the busted wing.” The guy is dragged out of the walking surrender line.

“Hey angel,” the solider says to one of the others in his unit, “this ones yours.” He slaps the man on the shoulder, grinning. “Rot in hell asshole.”

The Corporal levels his weapon, the space behind the man clears. He fires a whole round at him - bursts of red misted blood fly out as he convulses and hits the ground, executed with a hail of bullets.

_That right there; that was a war crime,_ Steve realizes. He’s just witnessed a war crime, and though it wasn’t by his hand, he find he almost agrees with it.

. . .

He doesn’t agree two hours later during the looting when some of the men in the platoon decide to claim sexual spoils of war. He forces several back, orders in non-explicit terms that _if you take a loaded gun into the room - it’s not consensual_; and so do each of his men he’s proud to see - if you can be proud of such a thing. But there’s a lot of apartments to hide in - or not, considering it doesn’t even look like some are waiting for a roof over their heads. He turns a corner right as a woman runs into him, he catches her before she falls, but backs off quickly as she slaps him good across the head. _Okay, ow_. “Whoa easy,” Steve soothes softly, taking a step back. “I’m not going to hurt you. Are you alright?”

Her eyes go past him; he follows to see another fight Steve’s boys have had to involve themselves in; witnesses Dugan shove another solider back.

“You ain’t taking her anywhere, shithead.”

The man starts shouting. Steve tells the lady to go inside, and find somewhere safe. She tells him, “nowhere is safe. They’ll bash the doors down.”

This is not the fist time he’s been told this or something similar in the last hour.

“Men are men, German or American.” The woman snaps after; looks close to spitting on the ground. “They are always the same.”

He purses his lips for a moment. “You have no reason to trust me; but, every man here not in Army fatigues is my squad; none of us will hurt you, I swear it. If you collect all the women, anyone vulnerable, into one place we’ll stand guard.”

“Why should I trust that?”

Steve sighs, “I…I don’t have an answer for that.”

_“I said back off!_” Dugan shouts behind him, “One more step towards me or anyone else here and my sniper up there” here he obviously shoves a finger at the second floor window Bucky_ isn’t_ in, “will shoot out your knee caps. How’s that for a party?”

The man scoffs, “You’re a fucking bullshitter - it’s my”

A bullet splinters the stone at his feet, and he jumps, swearing. Many do - raising their guns up. Steve holds up an arm to calm them.

“My Sergeant only bluffs once.” He tells the men across the square, making sure everyone can hear it. “Next time he’ll get you. No one,” he yells, “has a right to any of these woman - and if you do touch a single one - it’s a war crime! I’ll report every. Last. One. Of. You. Busted kneecaps or no.”

Several soldiers, privates, and Corporals nods in response to his words, agreeing. The others, the more boisterous, certainly look more wary.

“Plus,” Dugan throws in, “our guy may still cripple ya’ anyway. He’s got three sisters, so he’s hot a temper about these things.”

As if to solidify that his best friend fires out another Spritzer, an inch away from the guy’s head, just enough for him to feel the rush of air. He flinches, swearing - and backs right off.

Steve sighs in annoyance, turns to look at the window Dugan didn’t point at, who himself is busy grinning, and lifts his arms in a annoyed ‘really?’ gesture. “I just said your next shot wouldn’t be a bluff. You could at least pretend to listen to me!”

He doesn’t get a response, though he doesn’t need to - he can practically feel Bucky’s self-satisfied smirk. With a blink he realizes the woman is still there, backed against the arch.

She meets his eyes after a moment. “I will trust you, but I will be armed.” She says in English, “you will - you will guard us?”

“Course!” Dugan answers, coming close, “where do you want us sweetheart?”

She leads him, and then Falsworth off; and the boys even give her a knife for now just in case she changes her mind and wants them away with protection. Steve goes upstairs of one apartment block - looking for Pool so he can control his men. He walks into the room right as he’s telling his new gunner

“She’s a good clean girl. If you don’t take her into that bedroom I will.” _Oh you've got to be--how many times is Steve going to have to be f-ing done today?_ Pool gulps at the cup of tea and bites out of a sandwich at the table. The two women, one of them a slip of a girl; the same age as Pool’s new kid it looks like, is tense as anything - turned away at the sink scrubbing plates.

Steve doesn’t bother to not slam the door. “I just came up here to inform you that your men are out of control. _Clearly_ it’s not just them.”

Pool laughs, “out of control? Seems pretty dignified up here to me.”

“Not when forcing yourself on someone.”

“It ain’t ravaging like an animal - boy needs to get hotblooded inside a woman if he’s going in my Sherman. Shit’s a virgin, that’s the goddamn crime here.”

He looks at the kid, called Charlie he thinks, who until a couple of days ago was conscripted as a secretary, not a solider. He’s looking at the ground, avoiding eye contact. Steve was still a virgin at twenty four. “Charlie, right?” He asks until the boy looks at him. “Do you want your first time to be rape?” He asks very frankly. “Because it will be.”

He shakes his head, looking ill. “No sir.”

He nods, “good.” He then speaks to the women - “If you would like to leave you’re welcome to - a neighbourhood lady, Adele, is organizing somewhere. If you like I can take you there.”

The older one twists sharply to look at him, observing, then grabs the younger girl by the arm and practically shoves her at the door.

“The fuck you think your doing?” Pool says, “getting involved like that”

“I’d say that seems fairly obvious what the fuck I’m doing.” The older woman huffs a laugh from the other side of the door. “I know we only just met,” Steve adds, “but I respected you. You’re a great commander, and the victory today was down to how you handled it.” He shakes his head, pulling a face. “I don’t respect you now.”

He leaves the room, slamming the door, and heads back down the stairs with the two women, knocking on each door the Aunt in their trio points to. He hears Charlie leaving from upstairs too;_ good on you kid_, he thinks. When he emerges with a cluster of women he points them to Adele who’s stood with Falsworth in the square as a point of call.

He hears a snort, and when he turns Sgt. Judson is smoking, lent against the wall. “Heard your sniper was threatening to shoot out knee caps, that got any truth to it?”

Steve observes him steadily; shrugs. “Might be.”

“Fuckin’ perfect.” He laughs, “Heard you’re guarding people who ain’t prisoners too. Am I right there? Wait, let me guess - I might be.” He offers Steve part of his smoke.

Steve takes it, letting himself have one puff before handing it back. “Don’t think me and your platoon commander are gonna’ get on from now on.”

“That where you just come from?”

Steve hums an assent as Judson finishes the smoke.

“This guard you got going on - is there watches? You splitting the time?”

“Why?” Steve asks suspiciously, _so you can take_

“So I know if I’ll get some damn sleep at some point.”

He watches him steadily for a moment. “They’ll be watches.”

“Good.” Judson says, “lead the way.”

“Pool”

“Is a damn good commander, but he ain’t my only commander. Just cause I agree with some things don’t mean I agree with others.” How true that is for Steve too. “My own boys wouldn’t dare, and know I’d whip the shit out of them if they did push it - but I don’t command everyone. Or I haven’t tried. Thank fuck somebody” he punches Steve on the arm; hard; “had the guts to. Ballsy is as ballsy does. I’ll say again - lead the way.”

Steve starts the route.

“How can we be considered the good guys of we’re no better than our enemies? ”

Judd harrumphs. “Hallelujah to that.”

. . .

Steve returns from relieving himself, zipping back up. As he finishes up the stairs he catches Bucky sat on a trunk away from the others near the lit fireplace on the second floor posting Adele decided on. It’s not far enough away to be noticeable, but…well, it could be better. At first Steve thinks he’s watching the fire - but then realizes his eyes are just off the point of the flames.

_Hmm,_ Steve ponders, _he must be thinking about something real hard._

“Hey.” He says, sitting down beside him. The linen trunk creaks quietly beneath them with the weight, while the rest of the room is parsed with low murmurs and outside: men walking the perimeter, cheering, and celebrating. Bucky stares onwards like he hasn’t noticed, blinking slowly. Steve frowns at him;_ oh what, he’s getting the silent treatment now is he? What the hell has Steve apparently done now?_

“You gonna ignore me now then?” He asks, voice frank and annoyed. “Bucky!” He half-snaps, hard but quiet so the others don’t involve themselves. He’s getting a little tired of this back and forth - and after weeks on the road it’s starting to wear on all of them. Especially Dugan. Especially him. “Are you seriously--Buck?” He voice changes as the firelight glints off his friend’s irises and there’s no reaction whatsoever. He’s deathly still, ribcage inflating lightly with slow breaths.

Something more than the usual worry rears it’s head. “Bucky,” he starts again, “can youcan you hear me?”

_Nothing. Oh Christ _

“Bucky.” Steve repeats, harder, grabbing his arms.

Bucky jerks as if scalded, blinking sharply at the fire. He shakes his head _one, two, three_ to clear it, then blinks at Steve beside him with new awake eyes. “What?”

For once it’s not defensive; more bewildered, as if he just misheard Steve and has not just been entirely absent. Staring forward like that looked awfully similar to the reaction to the drugs he had on the Krausberg march, Steve realizes, stomach shrivelling up over the meat loaf he ate an hour ago. Or the times when Bucky walked without feeling.

“You were…you were staring right past me, pal.” Steve tells him carefully, voice softer than he’s expecting. “You okay?”

“Wha-yeah. Was I?” Bucky says, blinking again. “Sorry. I was, I was lost in thought I guess. My bad.”

“Is there a lot to think about?”

“What?” Bucky asks again, shifting in place. He starts scratching at him arm, on off, on off. He takes a moment to absorb Steve words, as if still coming into awareness. “I - I dunno, I guess.”

“I only mean,” Steve starts, and stops. After a awkward couple of seconds, he changes the path forward. He’s a coward. “That there’s not much to think about with a noggin as small as yours.”

“Screw off,” Bucky scoffs, taking the out. He’s looking down at his arm, furiously scratching now. _You itchy?_ Steve wants to ask.

Bucky zips his jacket up to the top, and puffs the collar up so it protects his neck. “I’m gonna’ walk the perimeter.” He decides abruptly. He stands, takes two steps right next to the fire and slashes his hands together to try and capture the heat. “Have you eaten?” He questions, as if reminding himself to ask. He always checks to make sure Steve’s eaten now.

“Have you?” Steve asks. “And yes.”

“Both rations?”

“_Yes Bucky._ Have you?”

He hums, or more grunts in affirmation.

“Are you still hungry?” _Steve_ makes a point to ask now - listening for the grumbling of his stomach. Bucky's hungry a lot, and all the run-round-raggedness Steve's been putting them through has hardly been helping him up even more weight back on. Steve doesn't like him skinny.

“I’m not eating your food, Steve.”

“Yes, I know. You’ve said. You’re not as transparent as you think, you know.”

“I wasn’t trying to be. Anything to specially look out for on watch?”

“No, nothing but the usual.” Steve answers, letting him go.

“I-I took the kid down by the way.” Bucky says, collecting his guns. His pack is back at base with the rest of their stuff and missing commandos. They’ll be back there by morning. When he speaks it’s quiet, careful; he means the child the awful SS officer hung with the painted slab. Under the sleeve of the the dead SS officer uniform, when the men stripped him of his boots; Steve had found a Hydra tattoo. Somehow it didn’t surprise him.

“I saw. Thanks for that.” Steve replies honestly. “Did you bury him too?” He asks after.

Bucky nods twice. “With the other young’uns, yeah.”

Steve’s head snaps up.

“Other young?” Bucky glances away evasively. “What others?” Steve demands straight away. He didn’t see anymore hung bodies except the grown men on the outskirts, and the kids who surrendered to them are all alive.

After a moment, looking unhappy about admitting it, Bucky answers. “The second MG42 cellar.”

“What?” Steve asks, dumbfounded.

“The one I shot into and you finished. There were kids in there - you probably didn’t see cause it was so dark in the middle of the action.”

Steve feels himself go cold, _oh god - oh god, there were - there were kids in--_

“It looks like it went quick.” Bucky remarks, trying to be kind. “Monty, some other Privates and I got names from a local, found one family - marked the names we knew - carved them into wood. No crosses, just in case…you know.”

“In case they weren’t Christian, yeah.” Steve says numbly. “How...how many?”

“Five.” Bucky answers after a moment, “it looked like two were me. One was you. Don’t know about the others.”

_But it was one of us._

Bucky continues, “Teenagers, about fifteen, sixteen maybe. The rest in the hole were men.” Steve likes the details laid out bare, no matter how much it hurts. Bucky knows this. It’s probably the reason why he didn’t want to tell him at all - if his tongue hadn’t got away from him.

“We didn’t know Steve.” Bucky says quietly, facing the fire again. “We couldn’t have - not until it was already done.”

“Yeah, okay. I hear you.” It doesn’t exactly make him feel any better. “Thank you.” He says again, just because.

“Of course.” Bucky says, and squeezes him on the crook of his shoulder from behind. Steve closes his eyes and breathes in the touch for a moment. “They’re under a willow tree, down the street and right; out of the town. The ground goes down then up again, not quite on a hill - we, we thought it’d be nice there. If you want to pray for them.” Bucky adds, “which you probably will.”

Steve nods. When Bucky releases him Steve grabs his sleeve, just to stop him for one more moment. He can’t do anything for the children - _Christ children they were children _\- they killed without realizing, but he can do something about this at least. “Hey. Please try and get some sleep tonight. Promise me.”

He doesn’t want to keep looking at the dark bags under his friend’s eyes as they linger, or god forbid grow deeper. Nor watch how his body moves achy and stiff in his joints; the sleeplessness crawling into his bones. For one, because Steve cares about him, obviously, but there is also the matter that at some point his judgement could be skewed on the field, and someone could pay the price.

Steve’s had his own sleepless nights, especially since Regensburg - about buildings collapsing and the blood on his hands, and sometimes even when he’s in the pews at Church. He dreams about the inside of the Vita-Chamber sometimes, which is not great either; and the heat still burns at him - so he understands the feeling of not wanting to return to it after when you know another is coming - but they both have to at least_ try_.

Now he supposes he’ll have something else to dream about tonight, _god,_ _O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour__.__F__orgive my sins, just as You forgave Peter's denial and those who crucified You. Count not my transgressions, but, rather, my tears of repentance. Remember not my iniquities, but, more especially, my sorrow for the offenses I have committed__._

Bucky smiles at him briefly. “I will. I promise.”

. . .

He kneels. The branches of the willow tree brush against his shoulders. He doesn’t take out his rosary today - feels as though the tool of prayer puts too much distance between him and the Almighty, and not the bridge it should be - he needs to be direct. He crosses himself in a murmur; “_in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_, then bends at the waist to press his head into the upturned dirt.

Gianluca, Donnie, Ines, Aida, unknown. Their graves bear no symbol of faith - maybe they had some, maybe they had none.

He prays for contrition. The words of the_ Actus Contritionis _are easy on his tongue, and then the _Oratio Fatima._ Halfway through - he breaks away from the Latin, allows a small deviation for himself. He thinks of his ma.

“Lord Jesus, give me the strength to stick it out over the long hail - not the grim strength of gritting my teeth but the glory-strength God gives. I’m here today with open hands and an open heart, ready to depend on you to help me through the day and all it will bring my way. Help me be like Nehemiah, help me come to you for guidance, strength, provision and protection. As I face tough choices and hard situations, help me remember my belovedness, help me remember that I am Your Child and Your Representative to the world around me. Help me live today in a way that brings honour to Your holy name. Jesus, give me strength in my weakness. Amen.”

Mostly though, more importantly - is the prayer for peace he finishes on. Peace for the children buried in the ground.

_Da, Domine, propitius pacem in diebus nostis, ut, ope misericordiae tuae adiuti, et a peccato simus semper liberi et ab omni perturbatione securi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen._

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into the dirt, then stands - and walks back to the second floor posting. Falsworth catches his eye, passes him a rag to wipe the dirt off his brow wordlessly.

They sit and sleep as a four that night; a square, one person per side. As they sit and take their places beside their Captain throughout night, each man squeezes his shoulder. One by one, each and every one.

“We’re with you, Cap. Always.” Dugan says to him, and pats Bucky’s knee too when he returns.

It’s something.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: 17st MARCH 1944

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUrR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

[CENSOR STAMP -** REDACTED]**

TO: REBECCA BARNES FROM: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS  
3421 45 HILLREST ST. NEW JERSEY SENDERS ADDRESS:  
** [REDACTED]**

DATE: 09TH MARCH 1944

* * *

_Becca,_

_He’s being funny with everyone, I_ _ no.__ Forget I said that, that’s not fair. He’s not talking to me. I’m just worried - he’s quiet, you know the way he can get sometimes. I thought maybe he’s talked to you._

_A lot happened, he was_ ** ** [BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK]** **

** **[BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK] ** ** _And Geez Becca, would you stop? I know you’re not getting on but do without the snide comments, yeah? It’s not needed. And don’t you dare get on at Bucky about writing her if he is. I mean it, just cause you don’t wanna’ talk to her does not mean that he can’t. _ ** **[BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK ]. ** **

_I pity Charlie if you’ve got yourself an ally. Hope you’re well. Congrats on the promotion by thway, I’m real proud of you. Don’t know if I ever said. A long way off from when you were stealing silks and shoes, huh? I had a rough day today. I guess you could call it a casualty of war. Probably something your pa mighta’ talked about - if he ever talked to you about that stuff…I know he did for your big bro; but didn’t know if he did for you girls. I felt a little better after I prayed. Maybe I’ll tell you another time when I feel more like talking. I’ll write longer when I can._

_Steve_

* * *

_P.S. Bucky wants Charlie’s number. Beware brothers on the big-talk._

. . .

“Company at last.”

“Oh my ” He jumps about a foot in the air. Inside his tent quarters, he turns to see the chair at the small desk occupied. “Peggy!”

“I arrive to meet you,” she continues mildly, “and you’re off gallivanting with a couple of tanks for days on end. What, you can’t even give me a day to catch up with you?” She’s smiling.

Steve tries to grin back slyly. “I like to keep you on your toes.” He lays down his shield. “Do I want to know how long you’ve been waiting in here for the sole purpose of scaring the jeebies out of me?”

“Considering that’d be rather embarrassing for me,” Peggy admits, “probably not.”

“Oh really?” He asks, sitting on the narrow bed.

She levers her feet onto the bed from the chair. “I get to keep some secrets. So, how was your day, _darling_?”

His heart thrills at the word; _he’s a darling now_ \- but sinks a little, remembering yesterday. “It’s been better - I’d rather not,” he clears his throat. Yesterday was yesterday, today is today. “I reported a man for a war crime.” He says instead, “American, one of ours. So, rather tame considering.” This little back and forth is a new tradition. “How was yours, _honey_?" She laughs at the inclusion. "Aside from wrangling runway Captains that is?”

“Aside from that - rather well. _Miraculously_," she tells him with emphasis, "no one has tried to shoot me today, or yesterday, which _is_ a surprise.”

“What a bore.”

“Oh I agree. It’s been quite terrible.” Peggy says in that dry British way of hers. Steve smiles at her, closed mouthed, and shuffles closer as he gets a whiff of something tickling his nostrils.

“Forgive me for saying,” he dares curiously, “but, you smell”

“Salty?” Peggy guesses, “yes, I’ve been on a fishing boat and in a barrel for three daysdon’t ask.” She says before he can with a raised hand, “it’s a long convoluted story and it’s all Howard’s fault.”

Steve laughs for the first time today, “Oh is it?”

“You’ll find most things are his fault.” Peggy counters, “He’s coming by the way - Howard is.”

“Really?” Steve asks, “how do you know?”

She hands him a postcard. It seems entirely innocuous, writing to her mother in Zurich - “under the stamp.” She explains, and when he pulls it up - in the tiny box there's an intricate miniature message to be read with a magnifier. “Oh, so this is how you pass secret intel.” He guesses.

“One of the ways.”

“Colour me impressed.”

“I got it on my stop in Zurich when I left you; the rest is also in code. Philips has been planning to send Stark out here to you weeks ago - he was just waiting for your coordinates before he launched.”

“Ah.” Steve says, “that’s good to know. It’ll be good to see him.” He says lamely.

Peggy raises an eyebrow, “Steve? Are you alright?”

He clears his throat, “yes or…I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright.”

She watches him carefully, “Alright…maybe not such a good day as you said?”

“Yesterday.” Without realizing he fingers his rosary through his pocket, Peggy eyes follow his fingers. “I’m just, a bit out of sorts. But it’ll pass.”

“Alright.” She says softly, “well I’m here if you would like to talk. In the meantime; perhaps I could cheer you up?” Steve looks up at her again, and she stands and approaches him. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Steve questions, looking for a file of intel.

“It’s nothing to do with Hydra or the SSR. It’s just from me.”

She glances behind her at the door, a brief look to make sure they won’t be disturbed. Briefly he realizes it’d probably be considered untoward for a lady to be inside his tent with him. Returning her gaze she opens the book she brought in with her, and between the first page and the cover there’s a…

She hands him a folded newspaper clipping, a square of about six or seven inches. When he unfolds it he expects to see something drop from the paper to explain, but nothing comes from it.

“What’s…”

“Just look.” Peggy says.

It’s an short article of a local British newspaper. It’s of…her. In the corner of it there’s a profile of Peggy, dark-haired and beautiful, hair in loose everyday curls; an image of a collection of women in Bletchley Park, some in Private uniforms, some not. It talks about the valour of British women in the face of danger. He notices that while she gave an interview, it’s under a different name; a Ms. Larson instead of Carter. Then his eyes are drawn back to the picture of her.

“I thought you’d like it.” Peggy says.

“It’s…it’s great. Wow.” He says, his eyes on the page. He has a picture of his sweetheart, he’s never had a picture of his sweetheart before -_ he’s never had a sweetheart before._ He’s never made it to a_ third _date before even. _Oh, wow._

“It’s not a real photograph, obviously. And it’s not a recent one even, the articles from several years ago. I’m afraid after since the war started having my picture taken seemed rather superfluous.”

“It’s beautifulYou look beautiful. What I mean, err is that, obviouslyis that you’re beautiful” Peggy looks like she’s not to laugh. He can’t help but huff out a little laugh with her, “so much for saying I’m better at talking to women, huh?”

“You’re still doing something a little right.” She replies.

“Three beautifuls are the charm then.”

“Charm is one word for it. The antidote to faux pas of the mouth.” She teases.

“I won’t let it get to my head then,” Steve replies. He looks down at the clipping again, then cocks his head. “Hang on.” He moves to the miniature desk set up in the room, and tears a little rip in the corner.

“Whawhat are you doing?” Peggy exclaims, “do you have any idea how long it took me to find that_ very specific_ article back in London?”

“It’s fine.”

“No it’s - what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to make this fit.” He replies, tongue peaking out from his lips; his compass out and open on the desk. _Yes, if he just cuts it like this, at that edge he can _

“I can find some scissors ”

“No need.” He answers, looking over his shoulder at her with a smile, busing his small pocket knife; he carves around her head in an almost perfect circle. Reaching into the desk drawer he pulls out a bottle of glue. Then, meticulously he spreads the back of the photo with the sticky substance. Once it has an even layer of glue he flips the picture over and places it in the lid of his compass. “Now I’ll always have you guiding me.”

A blush colours her cheeks slightly. “Oh that line is a level all on it’s own.” She laughs, “Glad I could help.”

Suddenly, somehow he’s standing again, face to face with her, a few scant inches apart. He can feel her gaze on him, returning his own. If they weren’t in the middle of an army base with too many curious eyes, he would have kissed her right then and there, regardless of their promise to be careful with her career. Romantic entanglements could cause a stir - give her a reputation - and he doesn’t want to cause problems for--

“You know, I think I rather miss when I was just a touch taller than you.” Peggy says suddenly, something else coming into her stance.

Steve blinks, surprised. “You do?”_ Really?_

“Hmm.” She hums, “it would have made some things easier - now you’ve got half a bloody foot on me.”

Steve’s about to ask,_ what things _and then, she’s on her tip toes - she’s kissing him.

For two heartbeats there’s nothing but him and Peggy and the feel of her lips. He pulls back slowly, and for her forwardness she looks as off-kilter as Steve feels. Then she’s smiling again.

Steve can’t help but - “thank you.”

“It’s just a picture.”

Steve’s compass in his hand, closes with a snap, concealing the beautiful women inside. “I mean, thank you for…”

“For?” She prompts.

He shrugs and gives her a bashful smile. “For giving me a sense of direction.”

She blushes and laughs, “Oh, you are determined to level up each, aren’t you? For that line, cheesy as it is, I think you should go in for the another one.”

“I can do that.” He says, and kisses her again. This time, as their lips meet; past the tent roof; they're holding each other under a blanket of blue.

.

.

.

* * *

NEXT TIME ON MAN THE GUNS, THE HOWLERS ARE COMING:

_“Have you kissed her yet?”_

_Steve goes a little red._

_“You have.” Bucky crows. “Was that all that happened?”_

_“No--Yes. I mean--we haven’t done--!” Steve splutters off. He turns to Bucky after shaking his head. “Why are you so obsessed with this?”_

_“Because I don’t want you to die a virgin.” He replies easily, blowing the smoke away before glancing over his shoulder. Steve slows a little, staring at him in his Captain America get-up._

_“I’m not a---”_

_“Steve.” Bucky silences him, “I’ve known you since we were ten. If you weren’t a virgin I’d know about it.”_

_“Bucky.”_

_He cracks another grin. “What? You know me, I don’t judge. I’m just saying--” He falters as he suddenly pays attention to Steve’s actual face. “Wait…Steve?”_

_“Okay so…a thing happened while I was on tour--”_

_Bucky stops._

_“--Oh my god--”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was action filled, with some terribleness as always thrown in. (I'm sorry! I can't help myself! It's a curse) But Becca's back! That counts for something, right? As a bit of fun to cheer us all up - any guesses as to what Howard did to force Peggy into hiding in a barrel for three days? With his reputation I'm expecting something absolutely ridiculous. Or - how many pin-up girls can Steve drawn in ten minutes? Put your bets in now people! 
> 
> I would also like to add lots of thanks to the 2014 film Fury - whose characters and battle sequence heavily inspired much of the action this chapter when I was struggling to put words to paper! Obviously no copyright meant - and it has been added to the tags for all the help it gave me to adapt to my own writing.
> 
> Let me know what you think! And sorry this chapter was a little later than the usual - proof reading was a bitch last week no matter how hard I tried!
> 
> REFERENCES:  
. UNDER A BLANKET OF BLUE: Music composed by Jerry Livingston, lyrics written by Marty Sues and Al J, Nelburg with the first recording by Kenny Sargent. Under a Blanket of Blue is an American popular song, published and recorded in 1933, one of four hits by the song writing trio that year, along with It’s the Talk of the town. It’s described as “a cozy ballad…about a couple snuggled together under a deep blue evening sky.”  
. KENNY SARGENT was big band vocalist and saxophonist, primarily known for his work with the Casa Loma Orchestra in the 1930s and 40s. 
> 
> .In July 1943, the British and American troops joined hands and attacked Sicily in an operation known as Operation Husky. The German troops took up the cause and helped Italy defend the attacks. Though they lost Sicily to the allies, they did succeed in sending a large number of Italian and German forces to safety from Sicily onto the mainland. This was Bucky's first landing.
> 
> ITALY CONTEXT: By the end of the first month, air raids on Rome were causing havoc by destroying military as well as civil and historical sites. This, alongside the hunger and demoralization, provoked anger, and the Italian people felt less and less in support of the war effort of their country. By July, the Italian dictator Mussolini was ousted by the Grand Council of Fascism - and the Italian King took over control, after which they abandoned the capital and set up elsewhere. That meant there was two Italian governments vying against each other, and the Royal government soon began secret negotiations with the allies to bring an end to the war, and an armistice was secretly signed. By this time the allies were already in mainland Italy, but due to Sicily - there were thousands of Germans on Italian soil who took command and continued to fight. By March 1944, the Allies were weeks away from retaking Rome and the Germans were facing losses.
> 
> . L'Italia è ancora in piedi! - Italy is still standing!  
.Ein volk! Ein Reich! Ein Fuhrer! - A people! An empire! A Fuhrer!  
.Ich bin ein feiger Lund wollte nicht für das wahre Volk kämpfen - I am a cowardly lund did not want to fight for the true people.
> 
> . Hiding messages under stamps was a real form of communication between spies at them time, sometimes written, sometimes in the form of micro dots.


	28. PART 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the target? The target is a port. What's the objective? The objective is to cause absolute mayhem. What's the method of mayhem? Fucking canoes.
> 
> The British are insane. Steve is insane. Bucky is going along with it anyway. 

BUCKY

BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, MARCH 05 TH 1944

_This is London calling. The European News Service of the British Broadcasting Corporation. Here is the news. But first, here are some messages for our friends in occupied countries. The Trojan War will not take place. Napoleon’s hat is in the ring. John is growing a very long beard this week._

_JOHN: Good evening, this is John Robinson reporting. This evening I bring you news of a different kind; not of bombings or advances or retreats, but of victories. Over the last two months, American Hero Captain Steven Rodgers, otherwise known as Captain America to the press; launched into Europe with a highly specialized team of men. Under his command they have successfully obliterated several German Strongholds behind enemy lines; and aided a total of 29 of our SOE agents in sabotage across France, Czechoslovakia, Italy and even the German homeland itself. This man rescued over 400 Allied prisoners of war in November last year, and is now the owner of a Medal of Valour, but you may not know much about him. Give me a moment to fill you in…_

. . .

They’re going back out again. Plus, Bucky kept his promise the other day. He slept. _Well done him, give me a round of applause - or a standing ovation - you motherfuckers, I slept. I didn’t dream. Forget Steve’s medal of valour, hand one over here._

He doesn’t dream another day, or another, and he sleeps. He gives himself the same congratulations in his head._ Well done, Barnes, _he thinks in his baseball coach’s voice,_ you’re knocking it out of the park. Home run, go for another one tonight. You got this. And if you don’t - don’t worry - you’ll get it another night. _

_God, he’s pathetic_, he decides vaguely as he drinks his coffee with Jacques in the corner, scratching out shapes on their lighters. Then: _No, come on. You slept. Let this be a good day. It’s a good day._

He doesn’t know where the rest are, but it’s nice, to be in a camp with a cook. Hot food, hot drinks, time to take a moment and stew. Bucky’s grateful, especially for the fact that he let himself get so dead-tired on his feet that he easily slept through all the bomb shellings dropping in the distance when they return. And they all got back, they’re all alive - and Jones is healing. He could bend his elbow all the way up yesterday.

_You’re doing great pal. Steve’s not dead yet. _Though if he doesn’t stop talking about Carter constantly Bucky just might kill him himself.

Never thought he’d be saying that.

They’ve got a planning meeting today for the Italian base on Steve’s map - which is a plan that involves air defence, recruitment, a heavy bombing and some sorta’ specialized bomb courtesy of Howard Stark. It’s a doozer. They’re to go in, destroy the air defence guns, and get out - and then the RAF are gonna bomb the shit out of it. That’s the plan anyway. Afterwards - they’re apparently going back to London; though he’s highly suspicious that there won’t be another assignment thrown their way for convenience sake before they end up making it to the runway.

“...think, Buc-k’e?”

He snaps out of his thoughts with the curl of a French accent. He looks up at Dernier who’s waiting for an answer. He’s back in the world._ Focus, come back, don’t disappear._

. . .

They're out again.

Bucky cracks open his ration cigarettes and lighter after his meal, the Nazi one he ‘apprehended’, after finishing carving the _swastika_ into a Celtic cross he saw on a gravestone in Scotland. He has two more in his pocket; and Dernier has a third, fourth, and fifth in his. It’s become something of a joke, the lighters, and Dernier’s already blunted and sacrificed one knife to his artistry. Bucky is following as a close second.

One of Dernier’s lighters also used to have a _swastika,_ but now it has a scratched out flag on a stick and _‘Viva la revolcion, dickheads!’_ scrawled in thick scratches in Bucky’s handwriting. Bucky’s lighter has _‘EAT SHIT YOU NAZI SHITS’_ in block letters on both sides in Dernier’s, to Morita’s utter amusement - so the Frenchman is carving another out for him for his birthday in a few weeks. Bucky’s other has _‘snitches get stitches’_ on one side and an McNair extraordinaire quote of _‘can’t feel it if your already dead’ _on the other.

Steve arches an eyebrow at him from across the camp.

“What?” He asks with the cigarette between his teeth.

“You hate the taste of cigarettes.” Steve tells him plainly.

It’s true, he does. He hasn’t really touched them since a party when he was fifteen, bar once or twice at the docks - but he’s still hungry and they curb his appetite. Plus, he wants to try again. “Things change.”

“_Oh._” Steve says, “Does it taste any better?"

Bucky scrunches up his face in displeasure; has to admit, “no.”

He keeps smoking though. Steve rolls his eyes, comes over and takes one from his packet.

“You’ve got your own cigarette ration.” He protests pointlessly.

“Sharing is caring.” He re-butts easily, fag held between his teeth as Bucky lights it for him. Steve tried smoking in Scotland, and Bucky’s seen him with one thrice since he thinks, so he’s not a regular. He mainly just seems to do it if he’s really bored or if he’s angling for something. The first time it was to fit in, Bucky’s pretty sure.

“Wanna’ walk the perimeter?” He asks, puffing on the cigarette and breathing out smoke.

“With you or on my own?” Steve raises another eyebrow at him. “Is that an order?” His friend cocks his head, saying_ no _but really meaning_ yes. _He does have an agenda then, the sneaky bastard.

“Urgh, fine.” He groans, and holds out a hand for Steve to pull him up, taking two drags before he starts following him. “Save us some hooch.” He orders Morita.

“What hooch? I don’t have any hooch.” Jim retorts quickly.

“Sure you don’t Jim.” Steve calls sarcastically behind him. It’s another running trend. He goes to reach for his Springfield before Steve tells him his side-arm is fine; and pats his own on his hip.

“You taking your shield then?”

“It’s just a perimeter walk Buck.”

“Krauts can still shoot you on a perimeter walk.”

“Urgh,” Steve groans this time; pulls him bodily by the front of his jacket with one hand. “_Come on. _Stop being paranoid.”

“Being paranoid is probably a good thing when your over the line.”

“Stop being difficult then.”

“I’m not being difficult.”

“You _are_ being difficult. _Would you just move it?_”

“Fine, fine. I’m going.” He relents when Steve shoves him lightly forward from behind. He feels cigarette smoke billow out past either side of his ears as Steve breathes from behind him. Once they’ve walked further than they probably need to and start to circle, Steve falls forward into step with him. He snorts as Bucky pulls another face as he takes a drag.

“If you don’t like it stop smoking it.”

“No.” Bucky rebuts stubbornly - he’s started it now, so he might as well finish. Let no one ever say he wastes anything.

Steve huffs out another cloud and clears his throat. “It’s still weird,” he comments, “I keep waiting for it to hurt. To screw with my lungs. I mean, they haven’t in months, will be a year in July.”

Bucky hums in response. They walk and smoke for another minute - until Bucky can’t take it anymore.

“So whats this about then?” He asks, and rolls his eyes when Steve gives him a look of pretend innocence. “_Oh come on_ Steve, I know when your angling for something - and your nice little romantic walk around the perimeter - you’re up to something.” He motions to Steve’s noggin. “What do ya’ want?”

Steve cants his head, “Okay, fine.” He answers, direct as always when pushed. “I want you to stop fighting with Dugan.”

“I’m not fighting with Dugan.”

“Yes youokay not _fighting fighting_ but don’t try and tell me there’s not something hovering there - has been for months.”

“You’ve only known him for months, maybe we’ve always been like that”

“Don’t bewhat did I just say about not being difficult? Huh?” 

Bucky looks away, puffing on the last dregs of the cigarette stonily. Steve sighs, “I don’t wanna’ fight with you Bucky, I don’t. But I’ve talked to Gabe and I talked to Dum Dum--”

“And you believe them over me? Geez Steve, so much for loyalty--”

“Hey. Stop.” Steve orders calmly. “Let me finish. It’s not a matter of believing them over you, but I know you were close before, pal, and that guy loves ya’, same as I do - and whatever is grating on you is now_ starting to grate on him too-_-”

“So it’s my fault?”

“_No_, I didn’t say that, did I?” Steve throws right back, calm again, and places a hand on his arm. “I don’t know what happened. Or what was said, or anything like that - but I can tell whatever it was you’re still pissed - which tells me whatever it was it was something big. And Buck…you do tend to be one to hold grudges.”

“I do not.” He grumbles, and Steve arches another eyebrow at him. He relents, “Okay, fine. I do but”

“But nothing. If you start the conversation I’m sure you can clear whatever it is up, but it’s gotta come from you pal. You’re the wall here.”

Bucky avoids Steve trying to catch his eye. He asks flatly, “Are you ordering me?”

Steve’s face drops further, and he claps Bucky on the shoulder. “No. I’m not. I’m asking you, as your friend. Not your Captain, your _friend…_Hey.” He calls again until Bucky looks at him. “Will you try?”

There’s a lot of ‘Will you try?’ from Steve lately. Bucky was also probably right in Scotland when he thought he should try harder for him. “Fine.” He relents, “so long as you give me another cigarette.”

Steve smiles at him. “That’s something I can do.” He pulls out his own pack and holds out one for each of them while Bucky lights them. He uses his ‘EAT SHIT’ one this time. Steve snorts. “How many of those do you have now?”

“It’s a growing collection.” He grimaces again after his first drag. “God, this is disgusting.” Steve rolls his eyes at him again; which is a familiar, if fond, expression. He offers as they start walking again: “I can make one for you, if you like it so much.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What would it say, another ‘Eat Shit?”

“’Suck my dick Nazi fuckers’ is another we’ve been thinking about.” He offers and Steve laughs. “What ever you want.” He continues, “How about an Agent Carter quote?”

Steve groans.

He continues, “I can lend you my knife and you can carve out what she looked like when she shot at you, all artist like, in Stark’s lab if you want. I’m still pissed I missed that.”

Steve elbows him, pulling a face. “That’s not something I need.”

“I’m just saying - it’s something to remind you of her when you’re hundreds of miles away in a _cold…dark…_tent _all on your lonesome---”_

“Stop it.” Steve warns not seriously.

“A physical reminder of her at night to keep you happy.” He teases. “It can’t hurt.”

“No it can’t.” Steve agrees, “But I don’t need it.”

“What, your memories are so perfect now you can manifest the real thing?”

“No.” Steve argues and pulls out his closed compass. He flicks it open. “I’ve already got this.”

“No fucking way.” Bucky spits out, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He reaches out to hold it and the photograph inside the lid, almost snatching it. “Did she give you this?”

“She did.”

“For you to keep?”

“Yes.”

“_For you?_”

“_Yes Bucky_.”

He laughs. “Damn Steve, maybe you have got some game after all. Who knew.” Steve swats him on the arm. “She is one hell of a looker - I don’t know if I’ve told you that.”

“I figured that out myself when you tried to flirt with her. And failed. And_ I know.”_

“Hey, that was a test for you”

“Oh was it?”

“--and she passed. With flying colours - didn’t even bother to look at me once.”

Steve snorts, swatting him again. He takes back the compass. “Sure it was. Keep telling yourself that.”

Steve starts off the walking this time, sucking another drag of the new cigarette.

“Have you kissed her yet?”

Steve goes a little red.

“You _have._” Bucky crows. “Was that all that happened?”

“NoYes. I meanwe haven’t done” Steve splutters off. He turns to Bucky after shaking his head. “Why are you so obsessed with this?”

“Because I don’t want you to die a virgin.” He replies easily, blowing the smoke away before glancing over his shoulder. Steve slows a little, staring at him in his Captain America get-up.

“I’m not a”

“Steve.” Bucky silences him, “I’ve known you since we were ten. If you weren’t a virgin I’d know about it.”

_“Bucky.”_

He cracks another grin. “What? You know me, I don’t judge. I’m just saying” He falters as he suddenly pays attention to Steve’s _actual_ face. “Wait…**_**Steve?**_**_”_

“Okay so…a _thing_ happened while I was on tour--”

Bucky stops.

“Oh my god”

“It’s not a big deal - okay it is but”

“Oh my god, Steve, oh my god”

“Will you stop ‘oh my god-ing?”

“_No I absolutely will not._ Oh my god Steve, **_**who?**_**”

“One of the USO chorus girls, she’s a friend and”

“A chorus girl. You had a roll in the hay with a _chorus girl_?_!_”

“In the dressing room, actually.”

Bucky feels himself splutter further. “Oh my”

“Would you stop? Just let me talk, man.”

“No. Yes. Absolutely I can. Three bags full. Sorry.” Bucky rants, bounding back to him. “I’m shutting up now - start talking.”

Steve looks at him in silence for a second to see if he’s actually going to hold strong, then grins, a little pleased. Bucky’s practically bouncing in excitement, his lips pressed thin to keep himself shut up.

“Her name’s Josie. She’s a redhead”

He holds his hand out as Bucky opens his mouth, already probably predicting he’s going to say that he loves red-heads. He waits until Bucky closes it again, grinning. He mimes zipping it shut.

“She’s funny, and_ bossy_…and generally spent the entire time we knew each other flirting - but - she didn’t make it weird like some of the others did. We um…we went out in New York - it wasn’t like a planned date, we just bumped into each other and did all the tourist traps. Nothing happened.” He holds his hand up again when Bucky looks angrily flabbergasted at him. He perks up again as Steve says, “that time. But I think we both wanted it to - and in Delaware, a week before we got on the boat, she came to my dressing room after the show. And…well, you know.”

Bucky bounces again, eyes wide. Steve rolls his.

“You can talk now.”

He practically explodes with energy. “Well yeah,_ I know_ but like….you know?” He shakes his hands. “How was it?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“No. _No Steve_, don’t do this to me. Don’t you dare do this to me!” Steve’s grinning again, shit-eating and pleased with himself. “Come on…please. Please.”

“I’m not gonna tell you anymore about her like that--”

“Okay fine but - _what about you? _Was it good? Was it fun? Did you like it? Was it how you expected? Did she make it good for you?” He asks at last and see’s Steve’s grin soften. “How was it?” Bucky stresses, “I know you waited so long so”

“It was good.” Steve reveals, “I was really nervous at first, and knew what I was doing but didn’t really at the same time…”

“Uh-huh…” Bucky prompts.

“But she was really great about it - and fun - andit was good.”

Bucky bites his lip, teasing. “It was good?”

“It was _very good. _Great even.” Steve tells him, and tugs him round back to the camp with an arm around the shoulder and a red face. Bucky’s laughing, and, he realizes he doesn’t feel tense at all.

“I can’t believe this. I go away for _five months_ and you join the army, get yourself into a top-secret government experiment, learn to dance_ and_ loose your innocence all in one go”

“Oh my god” Now Steve’s saying it.

“ThatThat is not fair!”

“Would you shut up”

“No, I will not! This is amazing. What--Where is she now, this Josie?”

Steve sighs, and rocks Bucky back into his shoulder after he puts out his half smoked cigarette on a tree. They’re really not very good at this patrolling business, honestly. “She and the rest of the show were taken out of Italy before we all got back on the march. She thought I was dead so she was pretty angry when she managed to get a hold of me in London.”

“In _London? When_ was this?”

“It was just a couple of letters.” Steve explains, “She’s back in the States now - on another show.”

“Okay then, but, if she likes you enough to--”

“She’s just a friend. It’s a bit complicated but; we talked. She’s just a friend now. She’s pretty insightful; could see I was thinking about someone else.”

“Carter, you mean?” Steve shrugs then nods at him. He asks in surprise. “And she wasn’t sore about it?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. She’s good like that.” He smiles pretty fondly. “She just wants me to be happy.”

“So she wouldn’t be up for second helpings if you saw her again?”

“No. I doubt it.”

“What about first helpings of a lonely best friend?”

“Oh for” He shoves Bucky away in annoyed exasperation. “You’re disgusting.”

“Well, that’s not new information.” That comes from Monty, who jumps in as they reach the camp.

“All clear.” Steve says to the rest just for the pointless sake of it. Bucky splutters.

“It was a legitimate question! A chorus girl Steve, a_ chorus girl._”

“What the hell are you two blathering”

“Boys!” Bucky interrupts, louder. “Have I got a story to tell you”

“Bucky _no!”_

“_Bucky yes!”_ He crows, dodging as Steve tries to tackle him into a leaf pile.

. . .

_Cats with chicken feet and birds with a mirage of rainbow scales flap and pace around him, flapping above his head. _ _He ca__n’t see Sarah or her puppies. There’s no dogs, or rabbits; mostly birds; pigeons, doves, eagles and crows-but-not-crows because they’re a deep purple. They fly in and out of the shadows, disappearing and reappearing in sight. A cat’s tail tickles under his nose as it walks over his head. _

_He tips his head up and forward painfully - he’s strapped down from shin to chest. A hand grabs his hair and looms over him; a typical Hydra guard in all black and wearing circular goggles. They should have stolen Hydra uniforms and masks when he and Subject #64 tried to run like _ _scurried_ _rats. They should have stolen uniforms and put them on, walked around, pretended, and then walked right out. _

_They were such idiots._

_The man forces his head back onto the table. He’s too tired to be scared. The hand stays where it is threaded in his hair and scalp._

_“You are _ _testhema_ _.” The guard says._

_“You can’t say that.” Bucky returns, “only _ _ he _ _ can say that.”_

_“You are _ _testhema_ _,” the guard repeats again, and pulls off the hood and mask. It’s face is red, skull like; and the fingers in his hair turn to claws. Johann Schmidt grins at him, white teeth eerie. “The test subject. _ _ You are one of us _ _.”_

_“No.” Bucky says._

_“Yes!” He hisses like a snake. The birds around him squawk - he’s one of them, Hydra, he is against them. They’re _ _against_ _ him, and turn friend to foe. They flash towards him in an explosion of feathers and claw his eyes out._

. . .

He wakes up. There’s birds calling to each other in the trees.

. . .

7th March 1944 - ADMIRMAL RADIO (CBS) - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

_…..and we’re back with Doug Edwards for another story._

_DOUG: Good day, welcome back! In other news; you may know his name, you may know his comics; but American Hero Captain America - I’m proud to tell you - is a real man. A symbol to our nation, a hero to the world - on his first mission our super-solider _ _rescued_ _ 400 Allied men, and now: battle-tested; he fights in the thick of it in wartime Europe. _

_Reports have been streaming in of his exploits by Army Command and troops on the ground over the last month; downed pilots have been assisted to safety by him, he’s fought with our friends across the sea in occupied countries, and most recently he took part in an advance pushing past Naples, and saved a whole squadron in D-company of the 5_ _ th _ _ Infantry in the trenches._

_[STATIC]_

_ He and his, as dubbed by a Corporal we spoke to, Howling Commandos’s have quickly been earning their stripes. Their mission; taking down Hydra, the Nazi-rogue science division. We have confirmation of nine targets, and three outposts that have been destroyed by this sole commando squad, and they’re not stopping yet…._

. . .

Tuscan style architecture, dusty air, rubble on the floor, torn out cellar gate. A deep dark hole below as he comes to it after the fight; bodies inside. Not just men.

_Oh no._

. . .

_Those kids weren’t your fault, Barnes. You didn’t know._

. . .

. . .

The Italian base goes swimmingly, an almost beauty in fact, despite Falsworth gaining a unlucky bullet hole to the ass. The lead up to it is several days hiding out just of edge of the city of Turin, in the sewer tunnels, about two hours from their Hydra Base. The entire way they have to put up with Steve’s love-struck tales of Agent Carter this, Agent Carter that.

It starts when Dugan grumbles about the conditions, as he always does, even if he doesn’t really mean it. He says sarcastically:

“Good god, you gotta’ love it here. Practically the Ritz.” He trips on another step down on their way to the next tunnel of the stinking storm drain. Bucky doesn’t help him up.

“You shouldn’t complain, you know.” Steve throws out quietly from the front position. “We’re only here for a few days. Peggy once spent an entire week in the New York sewers when she first got there to learn about their layout and operation.”

Bucky wasn’t able to see his face, but could imagine it from the positively dreamy tone of his voice. It’s almost sickeningly sweet. Almost. Mostly it’s a little irritating, or today at least, because Bucky’s already sat through three hours of this.

On queue Morita and Jones choruses, “Oh Peggy once…”

It should have put Steve off it, instead, it had the opposite effect. Bucky’s not _actually_ annoyed by it, as much as he likes to pretend.

They tear through the base, grabbing intel and targeting the three corners of air defence. They’re all trained in denotation now, though Jacques remains the one and only true extraordinaire, and so they each set their charges and peg it out - much to Hydra’s confusion as that’s not their usual trademark.

“You know,” Steve says casually as they step as one, back to back, and clear round another corner. Through their backs - shoulder-blade to shoulder-blade - Bucky can feel the vibration of his friend's heart _pumping_ from the action. He covers Steve as he skids to his knees and sets a charge on a supporting column; eyes on the open corridor ahead. “I think the reason I liked Josie so much was that she reminded me of you.”

“That’s weird.” Bucky replies.

“Is it?”

“Considering you hopped and pounded your way into bed with her, kinda’.”

Steve huffs, and flicks the switch. It starts counting down. They move up and out, clearing room after room. They set another. “That’s not what I meant. I meant…I don’t know. Just that I guess that I missed you that much. When you were gone.”

“Okay…that’s nice. I missed you too. Why are you telling me this?”

Steve shrugs, and punches a guy in the face. Bucky shoots him in the chest to finish, and they crab run along the next corridor and out. As they run, Steve says: “Guess I just figured you could do with hearing it.”

“Now? In the middle of an assault?” Bucky wants to laugh.

“Easiest way to get you alone.” Steve turns just to grin at him. Bucky shoots someone gunning for him over his shoulder, Steve’s knife hits someone else dead centre in the solar plexus over Bucky’s. Both enemies hit the ground at the same time; as to their killer intentions.

Four for five now - in the tally of how many times they’ve saved each other since Scotland. The escape in Krausberg doesn’t count; mainly because if they counted Steve’s wondrous -_ stupendous magnificent_ \- rescue of him from Zola’s hellpit - Bucky’d never catch up - even if he did kill two for him in the assault, and three in the attack when Steve was running round like a glorified smuck in a cape. If they counted it - Steve’s count would be in the hundreds - that’s how much that rescue meant to him. So four for five.

Steve’s winning - _but_ _not for long punk,_ Bucky thinks._ I’m catching up._

“You’re a strange fella.” Bucky says, “has anyone ever told you that?”

“You.” Steve replies, winking. “A lot.”

He kicks Bucky’s legs out from under him; throws his shield, then catches his falling elbow before Bucky can hit the ground too hard, or hit the ground at all. His backside hovers three inches off the concrete. Three Hydra guards go down in one rebounding hit.

“Four to eight now.” Steve declares, hiking him back up. He catches his shield in one hand, and runs out the building.

“That only counts as one!” Bucky shouts after him.

“No it doesn’t!”

_Dammit._

It’s a great time, and this time Bucky doesn’t have to kill as many people as he thought he would - nor does Steve - as the pilots do all of the killing for them three thousand feet in the sky when they drop a barrage of bombs.

It started off as a bad day, but finished as a better one than expected.

. . .

He used to save Steve a lot.

. . .

_Street-fights are inescapable, and they happened _ ** _ **every. single. day.** _ **

_Older, bigger boys laughed though; they knew the Rodgers kid was going to die one winter. Their mamas had told them so: so? What was Bucky gonna do about it? Knock their teeth in and blacken their eyes; was what._

_He drags Steve back home afterwards and patches him up the way Sarah taught him last year to keep him occupied when Steve was still bed-bound from the residues of Scarlet Fever. She said it was to distract and to keep him still for one god-given, Lord breathing minute so he stopped bouncing round her apartment fidgeting if he wouldn’t go play out with his other friends - but Bucky’s not dense. Not entirely anyway. She probably just didn’t want to admit she was teaching him so he knew what to do_ **_**when** _**_(because it would be when, not if) Steve got himself beaten up when she wasn’t home. She’s been taking more shifts this new year since the doc decided to have Steve carted to St Vincent's Medical Centre instead of just telling her to call the priest._

_Just from that alone Bucky reckons she’s going to stick with that one for the long run. St Vincent's is a charity hospital, and they saved Steve’s life - and his mama loves charity so she always tries to give back with volunteering. Charm them good and proper, as his mama likes to say; she's got a nice smile, that Sarah. She’s also saving up since there’s no guarantee they’ll get a bed there if there’s a next time - so Bellevue and it’s big bills might be the way they have to go._

_He tries to knock sense into Steve’s hard head - though after near three years of this Bucky’s starting to loose faith Steve’s even got his hearing ears on; let alone his listening ones._

_“It’s like you’re looking to get hit.” He says, more exasperated than angry. It’s the summer just before Steve turns fourteen. His idiot pal sucks in a breath; stares stubbornly at the sprained wrist Bucky is very poorly dressing. Serves him right for trying to go for an uppercut without any experience - though Bucky does feel a little bad that he ain’t gonna’ be able to draw for weeks. He likes it when Steve draws. He tells him just so - “you happy ‘bout that now?”_

_“But--”_

_“But nothin!’”_

_Steve, jaw set, says: “They were ‘bout to knock ‘round old Miss Kowalski, Buck.” The a’s muffle out of his speech with his nose stuffed with tissue as it is. It makes his accent come out even more, weirdly. “Tryna’ get her grocery shopping.”_

_“Yeah, well - she don’t need no thirteen year old hooligan shoving himself in and getting thrown around.”_

_(It’s a point of contention, he’s only thirteen for another_ **_**two** _**_more days, you jerk.)_

_(Punk.)_

_Miss Kowalski is nearly eighty years old and is blinder than a bat. “She does,” Steve interjects, “who else is going to do it?”_

_Bucky hears a ‘not you’, though he’s unsure if that’s what Steve means; if it’s even a thing. Probably not? But maybe? Should he be the one standing up like Steve is? He’s the more able-bodied...so why isn’t he? Why doesn’t he? Now he feels bad. Maybe Bucky’s just being paranoid._

_It's times like this where he feels like Steve's unknowingly teaching him to be an even better person, the person he should be. _

_“Then find a copper. There were three of them down the block. Or wait for me--”_

_“I don’t need you to win a fight, Bucky. I can do it on my own. I’ve told you this a hundred---two hundred times.” Steve bites out next._

_Bucky crosses him arms, safety pin in hand so Steve’s finger is stuck on the bandage fold for longer. “I know. You’re your own man, you do your own thing blah blah blah,” Steve scoffs at him - “because guess what - I’ve had this shit from you two hundred times too.” He rolls his eyes, and moves to fasten the dressing to free up Steve’s finger to do whatever the hell he’s gonna do with it next. Hopefully not to pick his nose. “You can’t go about saving all the old Misses tins o’ ham and eggs, you doofus.”_

_“You should leave the world a better place than it was when you came into it.” Steve says, which sounds an awful lot like something Father Matthews would say. It’s good words, to be fair; a simple purpose that’s so very full of good things - but he’s pretty sure if he strolled up to Father Matthews and asked him if he meant for Steve to be throwing his face at punches when he said it to him- considering this is the excuse he’s using now - the answer would probably be no. “I’m not gonna give up a chance - any chance - to do some good.”_

_“Yeah. I’m seeing that.” Bucky mutters._

_“She got away.” Earnest as a penny; Steve Rodgers was, with enormous eyes and a sprout of tissue fanning from his nostril like sweep brush. _

_Bucky has yet to find a way to say to no to those eyes. He may be small, bony and physically insignificant but his presence is; and always has been, something else. “That’s gotta’ count for something.”_

_“You’re still a blockhead.”_

_Steve says nothing, just nods unhappily, twisting his wrist and grimacing. You keep telling me, Bucky reads silently though - and then Steve leans his head hard against Bucky’s shoulder and closes his eyes. Bucky’s normally the one who engages, and especially initiates the easy physical affection between the two of them - so he knows this is, in Steve’s way, his own kind of apology. His hair is hot, it smells of sweat, blood and the sun._

_But you’re my blockhead._

. . .

Convenience _his ass._ He was right, by the end of the assault they give them something else to do - and he’s pretty sure it’s not so much convenience and more easy action propaganda.

"It's not." Carter promises. "This is--"

"Don't say essential--"

"Essentially a necessity." Carter says. Bucky whacks his head into the wood behind his skull, rolling his eyes.

"What've you got?" Dugan asks, looking far too gleeful.

What's the target? The target is a port. What's the objective? The objective is to cause absolute mayhem. What's the method of mayhem? Fucking canoes.

The British are insane. Steve is insane. Bucky is going along with it anyway. 

Having realized that valuable war materials are flowing from Asia to the Germans in Italy through a port in Venezia, the whole lot of the Allies have decided that this choke point has to be stemmed. More destructive ways of destroying the ships in the port will cause civilian casualties; so they've decided on a commando surgical strike. Their team is one of two - the rest are hitting the allaying port. Someone - someone with the same level of insanity as Steve Rodgers and Peggy Carter, Bucky has no doubt, has come up with the off-the-tits plan of commandos paddling into the port and sticking explosives onto the ships.

"We've done worse." Steve comments.

"We've done worse on dry land." Bucky rebuts.

"It'll be fun." Steve says, patting him on the arm. "Don't worry about it."

Bucky's hand is on his wrist, stalling him, before he can move away from the pat. "You really want to do this?" He checks, because he knows how Steve's been the last few days, despite his play acting during and before the assault. He hasn't exactly been himself when it comes to their extra-curricula activties for the war effort; riddled with guilt and remorse._ It's not his fault any more than it is yours_, he thinks to himself, _you didn't know. You didn't know. But Steve's always gonna' be the way Steve's always been._

"Doing it this way," Steve tells him, sighing; starts again. "Doing it this way saves lives. If not; their next option is to bomb it; and by bombing it; they bomb hundreds of civilians too. It's no more risky than most of our operations. I promise I'll make sure you don't drown." He adds on the end.

Bucky pulls his face, "I'm not afraid of drowning. I can swim."

Steve pats him on the arm again, conciliatory. "I know you can."

For a hot second he's wordless, which is enough for Steve to begin to finish his walk off. Far too late he calls back: "I can!" 

"Yep!" Is the only thing Steve designs to call back.

The submarine dives off one coast in the South and heads round, and up to the East; deep underwater within cramped circumstances, and surfaces on another coast. Bucky can see Steve is thinking about Bertie. Bucky is also thinking about Bertie. He's on a submarine like this, somewhere. They launch five canoes, each carrying two commandos. The port is fifty miles to inland, and then up a river, and they've got to paddle the whole way, taking several days and eating damp rations with cramping backsides. They hide on the shore, or outstanding rocks in the sea during the day, they power through the nights. The waves are terrible, the current is worse; and half the battle is keeping themselves on track and on path. Steve horsepowers past most of them at first; of course, until he makes himself hold back; and Bucky swears to god he can hear Dernier and Morita's elbows creaking from the work a full day in with each movement. They each get slower and slower until the last push; getting tired; or most of them do....Bucky and Steve keep them going at the front positions; pace not faltering; even when Gabe has to take a seat-back; one arm stronger than the other. They do a deal; Bucky keeps up the power, and Gabe just takes full control of the steering, which is easier now he can focus on just that. Bucky is surprised at how money for old rope he finds it all, compared to the others; how undemanding and elementary it is to keep up with Steve's pace compared to the rest. It's probably nothing. He's obviously just finally got his recovery back to where it was; and he'd always been in great shape before he shipped out.

Only two boats reach the safety of inland waters. Two capsize; smashing and sinking against rocky outcrops; another; once the boys fall off it; disappears somewhere; god knows where. Bucky and Gabe's boat, and Steve and Biring's boats are the ones that survive, with the rest in the water being tugged along off the back spears. Dugan and Dernier are covered in cuts and scraps from where they leaped off theirs before it could Titanic against jagged rocks.

Water splashes Bucky in the face, hard; so hard he splutters from the salt in his eyes and mouth as the wave bounces off the spray deck tying down his waist; concealing his dry legs and a boatload of explosives from the moisture. Another hits him, and the whole thing rocks; Gabe shoves his paddle into the water as a panicked anchor - only thanks to him do they stay upright.

There's a much larger splash; Cpl Biring yelping; "Bloody shi--" before their boat capsizes.

Steve takes the momentum and rolls with it, literally; like a somersault he rolls them right back up. When Bucky opens his blurry eyes Biring's shaking water out of his hair like a wet dog. Another wave catches him across the face; in one lapsed moment the current has twisted them right round so they're side on. Which is the worst position to be in when there's another fucking---_shit! They're going to go over_ \- Gabe anchors them; the whole canoe creaks; and they spin, veering off course. He's coughing and he can't see; salt stinging at his eyes; a hand latches onto his arm; stabilising his paddle when it nearly falls from his fingers. 

"You got this man." Dugan says from below him, clinging to the edge of the spray deck and bobbing in and out of the dark water. Bucky can see a slither of him in the moonlight. "Fingers locked." He reminds. Bucky clears his throat, helps Jones anchor; and Dugan helps them return to the right direction. The waves hit the back of the canoe now, so it still rocks, but it's better. Dugan has to duck under the water and back out to avoid the crash as the water comes down. Steve and Biring capsize again; more heavily loaded with Steve they're less stable. They both roll the canoe back upright together.

"Everyone still with us?" Steve checks, calling and taking a breath. There's a round of agreement; some holding onto Bucky's boat; some onto Steve's. "Patterson? Morita?" He calls afterwards, two voices that didn't answer. 

Cpl. Turrell, one of the other three SAS commandos who are with them, dives underneath the water while Steve and Biring battle against the current to keep the canoe in place. He surfaces with Patterson, shaking him and pumping his chest once to clear the water. The man coughs; bringing up a little; but he's awake, surfaced and moving again. 

"Latch him on." Steve orders, "sorry about that. I'll try and keep us staying upright this time. Morita?"

No one answers. Oh

"Has anyone got a hold on Jim?" It's sharper the more time that passes without confirmation. Bucky tries to twist in his seat,_ oh Christ_; just that alone destabilizes the canoe as the current lashes out. Dugan, who has hold of his paddle still; slings one arm and his bodyweight in front Bucky's position to weigh the boat down so it doesn't capsize. "Has anyone seen Jim?" Steve repeats.

Bucky can't see anything if he can't twist to move. He makes himself hear.

Gasps burst from the surface, and Bucky tries to turn anyway as Dugan orders for him to "hold still."

Gabe confirms; "Jacques has him. Looks like he's knocked out; boat must have cracked him good when you tipped."

"He breathing?" Steve asks sharply.

There's a good long pause where no one confirms it. 

"Is he--"

The sound of water explodes out of someone's mouth; and over the crash of waves on the coast; Bucky can hear Jim's sudden breaths and the compression of Dernier's fist on his chest. The sound of his feet threading water vaguely inputs through too. Biring leans back with his paddle; letting Patterson and the howler pair (conscious and unconscious) latch onto the wood to pull them in. They cling to the boat again. Gabe does the same for Turrell. Steve heaves Morita's unconscious body over the top of the canoe so he's draped between him and Biring.

"Let's keep going." Steve says, when he and everyone is ready.

A wave hits Gabe from behind and the splash-back gets Bucky in the face, again, and then Steve; the canoe rocks. Steve turns to face him in particular as he coughs, squinting. "You're doing great, pal. Keep pushing on, yeah? You need me to take anymore weight, let me know."

"You take anymore you'll capsize for good - then where will we be. I'm fine." Bucky replies.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He replies, and Dugan curls Bucky's fingers around the paddle again; tight enough that they're locked on. He thinks he might nod at Bucky, and then he's levering his weight off the canoe and back into the water.

Morita wakes up. Morita passes out again. Gabe slides off the canoe and into the water; Dernier's climbs into his position while their language expert slings Morita into his arms and paddles to the shoreline to hide and treat. Dugan goes with them for contingency. They were already one man down with Falsworth, now their four men down. They make it to the harbour; the remaining commandos blow up six ships.

It's almost worth it. Almost.

. . .

"I never asked; what's the plan to get back?"

"Heh." Steve says.

"Oh." Bucky says. "Great." 

_Fantastic._

. . .

"Shit!" A lot of them are swearing.

"Fuck." The rest of them are saying.

They very narrowly escape getting captured and executed for their heroics. Four out of ten commandos in the other team are not so lucky in escaping the closing circuit of the enemy; and only five of them made it to the port at all. Poor canoes.

. . .

For a week, they say, no more. Now that - that he's heard before; in Sicily, on the Italian Mainland, in London.

A quick weapons outpost to clear, and a series of phone lines to sabotage. Maybe a bridge or two. It shouldn’t take more than a week.

"Yeah, you've said that." Morita nods, thick bandage tied round his head. "What's the chances it's going to be more than a week?"

Steve practicably confirms this when he doesn’t deny it. Something Bucky maybe hasn't mentioned; more in that he's been pretending to ignore the entire situation, is that they've been put on the radio. They are also in the news, apparently. Nothing covert, obviously, but enoughs been said that people now are very interested. Steve’s face and name had already been plastered on the papers when they came back from Krausberg for his medal, but now they’re all on it; or their names are at least. The only photo they have of all of them was taken by a reporter at base, and that hasn’t made the circuit yet.

Apparently it’s occurred to those up top that they can be used as more than just gun-fodder and Hydra assaults, they can also be used to _‘up the morale of the folks back home and the men on the front alike.’_

They have a photographer with them, god help the guy. Steve groans long-suffering when he finds out and they drop the guy in the vicinity for them to pick up, but he’s polite and welcoming when they are introduced. His names Fletcher, or ‘Fletch’, and Bucky can admit, if not for his poor choice of career, he’s an alright fella. He's either Australian or a New Zealander, very cheerful and_ very_ tanned.

“No photographs of me, Fletch.” He has to keep telling him, in the middle of the line with his arm under Morita’s armpit and supporting his waist. The man stumbles along, grunting painfully - Bucky reaffirms his grip to try and make it easier for him.

“My _job_ is to take photographs of you.” He rebuts non-stammeringly.

“Technically your job is to take photographs of _him_.” He points at Steve as they walk, whose at the front of the march. Bucky is in third today as he’s on Jim duty, at the safest position, but he’ll get front march tomorrow if he has his way.

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on one man.” Is the immediate reply he gets. He’s snappy smart, Fletch is, and quick to spot neat camera shots and wording holes alike. “It’d be nice thing to share the load.”

“I’m not feeling nice today.”

“What a shock horror that is.” Comes a quiet grumble from behind.

“Was I talking to you Dum Dum? No, I was fucking not.” Bucky snaps behind him without looking, and Steve turns enough to give him a warning look._ Oh yeah, he’s supposed to be trying. _He forgot._ Probably didn't help when you nearly kicked Dum Dum in the balls yesterday either._

_Whoopsie _\- he makes that exact face at Steve; who widens his eyes in the way that means ‘I’m watching you’.

_Who is he, Becca?_

“Fletcher?” Jones calls from somewhere in the line, Bucky wasn’t entirely paying attention to where when they started. “I’ve got a question. You’re supposed to take pictures of the squad, right? Does that include the negroes and the Japs by chance?”

Now that’s a fucking good question.

“You get no photographs of me without them.” Steve notes helpfully from the front.

The American reporter they talked to at base on returning from Roccaserra had quietly but not so subtly edged them out of the interviews. It wouldn’t have been noticeable if it was just Steve they spoke to and ignored the rest of them, but they also asked questions of Falsworth, Dugan, Jacques and him; and Morita and Gabe were not, despite standing right there. Jim gave several answers, though every single one of them was omitted from the transcript by the end from what Steve told him, and Jones just stayed quiet and wasn’t even looked at. Bucky would have already known that if he hadn’t walked off to leave his question unanswered because he was hungry. Somehow they still got a quote from him; probably made it up themselves.

_“If they come up with some cheesy as shit line I swear to god,” he’d muttered when he heard, “I’m shootin someone in the tushie. I blame you.” He says to Falsworth, whose beside them and being held up by Gabe and Dernier so he can shower. Out of all the non-fatal places to get shot, Bucky's gotta' admit the ass is probably one of the worst ones. He is not looking forward to helping the guy shit later before he goes back to the medical tent. Hopefully he doesn't pull the short straw when it's time._

_(And yes, considering what happened, Bucky is more than aware of the irony.)_

_He splutters, “Why me?”_

_“You’re English. You have manners. You’re supposed to say something so witty and charming in that accent of yours to distract from me.”_

_“Not every Englishman is like me, you know that right? And I was a little distracted by the fact I** got shot in the ass.** So much for sniper cover, Barnes-bag."_

_"Sorry, I was too busy stopping Morita from getting brained by a psychopath the size of a horse to notice your little accident."_

_"Muchly appreciated, Sarge." Morita adds in._

_"When someone gets shot," Falsworth grunts, "most people tend to have sympathy."_

_They all look at each other in the pit patter of the quickly going cold canvas shower block, pausing in their soap scrubs. He catches Steve's eye. "Nah." They all say together._

_"You're all awful." Falsworth says._

_"Love you too, Monts." Dugan says from the other corner, towel-drying himself off._

_“Back to the original point:" Gabe begins, "I take it you're saying not all of them are posh-twots?” Falsworth groans into his braced arms; Dernier makes quick work of scrubbing his legs._

_“Says the guy who went to college for languages.” Bucky cuts in just for an extra point._

_“You went to college too, asshole, and so did the Rodgers last I checked, so you got nothing on me there.”_

_“Steve’s was for art. That doesn’t count.” Steve throws a towel at him, getting it drenched in the spray of water. “I’m joking, geez.” Bucky retaliates, and tells him sincere but also mocking, “you’re very talented. And yes, Gabe’s right about posh twots - do you not come out the womb like that?”_

_Monty laughs this time, eyes still closed. “You should meet someone from Burnley, or Yorkshire, or the East End - very different accents and charm. Then come back to me about it, not everyone is like bullet-ridden moi. Have you even met anyone who isn’t from London or the South?”_

_Most of them shrug here nor there._

_“I knew a Scottish guy.” Bucky says without thinking, “he wasn’t like you. He was funnier for one.”_

_“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of Jackson.” Gabe begs, smirking._

_“Urgh, no. God forbid. Someone from before.”_

_“Who?” Steve’s voice comes from behind, and when Bucky turns he’s looking at him, one hand still from where he’s towel drying his hair. He’s naked._

_“What?”_

_“You knew a Scottish guy before training? Who? When?”_

_Bucky swallows his tongue, Robert, Ronan, Rocky, Randy, Randall, Rowan, Ruben, Ryan, Ronald, RonRonRon 1440658 - why did he say that? Why the fuck did he - he’s supposed to be letting Subject #64 rest in peace, not dragging him back out the grave and into the action again with Bucky’s stupid words. Water splashes in his eye in a squirt, and he squints; blinking. He shrugs, “just before. On the front.” He answers dismissively, turning away and picking up the soap._

“I was told to document your mission in a flattering light. I don’t see how having you in them would be unflattering.”

“Good answer.” Dugan grunts.

Morita grunts again, worse, going from hisses to pained gasps as they climb over a tree-root. His feet drag over the ground. He must be uproariously dizzy.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carr--”

“Don’t you dare.” He bites out.

“Christ, you’re as bad as Captain-oh-my-Captain”<strike></strike>

“American papers might not like that, maybe not even some of the others.” Gabe notes.

“I don’t work for just American newspapers,” Fletcher shrugs, “ so what are they going do about it? 't's not my problem.” He turns back to the front and lifts his camera. “Sergeant, don’t move your head there.”

“Which Sergeant you talking to?”

“The one in front of me.” Fletcher retorts, not taking it. “_You_ Barnes.”

“I said no photographs.”

“It’s the side of your head and your ear. It’s a good foreground for the shield on the Captain’s back. Ooh yeah, good lighting.” He mutters to himself, and the camera flashes.

Dum Dum snorts, “At least something makes you happy, Fletcher. Even if it is artistic moody lighting.”

“Wait until you see the reel of film when I develop them, then you’ll be eating your words, Sergeant.”

“I’ll take your word for it, man. Now stop taking flashy photos and keep on a’ walking. Jimmy-bo, I’m sorry man, but you gotta’ go faster here.”

“I’ll conk you on the head with a boat and see how you fast you walk.” Morita snaps, mid-groan, then in Bucky’s ear says: “I’m counting on you to conk him, by the way.”

“Of course you are.” Bucky says.

“You’re doing fine, Jim.” Steve calls over his shoulder, “don’t worry. Let us know if you need a break though.”

“No one is carrying me.” He illiterates again.

In front of them Bucky hears Steve mutter: “Hell, you_ are_ as bad as me.”

Dernier, in second position, doesn’t seem to notice.

. . .

** **

He plops down next to the moustached man of the hour four days later, after the sixth time Steve’s given him, as he’s dubbed it, “the look”. He studiously avoids it for as long as he’s able, until they’re two days away from their next assignment, and figures he really should get it out of the way before they have to rely on one another not to get shot again. He waits until it’s dark and Dugan’s the only one on watch, and crawls out from under his tent to next to the fire.

“Hi.”

Dugan raises an eyebrow, “Alright?” He replies, a bit flatly, puffing on a cigarette. “You want a smoke?”

They’ve bedded down in a cave, and the cloud of smoke catches against the wind whistling through towards Bucky, who scrunches his nose as it catches him in the face. He sniffs it in, and decides: “Nah, I’m fine.”

Dugan keeps his eyebrows raised. “I thought you were finally taking it up? Seemed that way.”

Bucky shrugs, and admits, “If I’m hungry. Makes me too angsty to sleep otherwise.”

Dugan grunts, “You mind if I carry on?”

“Would you actually stop if I asked?” Bucky asks, but before he can answer says, “No go for it. I like the smell, just not the taste.” He crouches down by the dwindling fire they’re keeping low so as to not give off too much light, wedged in between a corner wall and a large boulder. Normally they wouldn’t have the fire at all but it’s a cold edged night of spring, and they’re fairly covered round the corner of the cave from the rest of the open. The light contrasts; faint blue moonlight catching just off their camp against the warmer orange of their burning cinders. 

Bucky rubs his hands together, bouncing on his heels as close as he can get to the miniscule flames; not shivering but still cold. He’s got on more than enough layers to combat the temperature, but his chill is coming from under the clothing, as always. He practically sticks his hands under the blackened wood.

“Careful,” Dugan warns unnecessarily, “Any closer and you’ll be sitting in the fire.”

Bucky hums, clenching and un-clenching his fingers, stretching them out from where they feel locked into claws. He was scratching earlier, over his coat so there’s no skin on skin evidence, and his hands stayed in that position after he stopped, lying on his side waiting for the others to fall asleep.

“I take it all quiet?”

“Pretty sure I heard a pack of wolves earlier, somewhere down in the valley.” Dugan replies. Bucky heard them too. “But apart from that no; I’m just glad you lot let us search the whole cave for bears before bedding down. They’re big but hell, you’d be surprised how quick they move if they’re disturbed.”

“Right.” Bucky says, “It’s still sorta’ hibernating season, isn’t it?”

Dugan snorts quietly and coughs when he accidentally inhales smoke down the wrong hole. “I’m not gonna’ comment on the stupidity of the question,” he says, “only because a true city slicker like you wouldn’t know the difference.”

Bucky just shrugs at him in response. “I’ve never seen a beaver either.” He offers, and then tenses slightly as he remembers where that thought came from.

_(He’s trying so hard to answer he doesn’t know if it was a beaver or a bear or an elephant or a cat because he’s never seen a beaver or a bear or elephant in real life before.) _

“Jesus.” Dugan mutters, then says. “Nah, I’ve known a fella’ mauled by one of them before”

“What? A beaver or a bear?” It’s not a good joke.

Dugan gives him a look of ridiculous annoyance. “A beaver, what the hell do you think I mean?”

Bucky just shrugs unhelpfully at him again.

Dugan puffs in long and low, “The idiot wandered into the cave, disturbed the thing from it’s sleep and _boy did it move._ Tore at him, crushed his skull, the whole nine yards. E’ never made it to the doctors. I’ve had to leg it for my life myself when I walked by and saw three cubs together - you see any babies you don’t get close Barnes, trust me on that. Turn round and put as much distance between you and them as you can. If the cubs are there then the mama won’t be far and you do not want to cross one of them. They’re worse than the males.”

Bucky mumbles a “Good to know,” since he doesn’t really know what else to say. They sit in silence for a while. Sometimes it’s like he’s completely forgotten how to respond in normal conversations if he’s not talking to Steve. He finds he doesn’t always know what to say, whereas before it seemed to come almost second-nature. He’s always been a people-person - he’s always been good at talkin’ the talk and walkin’ the walk.

Dugan attempts to blow out a ring of smoke, and fails. “You really never left the city before this did you?”

“Not really.” Bucky answers, “We used to go to Indiana in the summers - got family out there. But that was when I was young.”

“Too young to hold rifle?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky answers in bewilderment, “_How old were you_ when you first held one_?_”

“Like seven? Shot my first in the same year.” Dugan answers casually. “My pop’ was a Texas man at heart.”

Bucky stares at him a little warily, “That’s a little scary.”

“Is it?”

“_Yes.” _He stresses, “And yeah, by _normal people_ standards I was too young. We mainly just chilled and picked blackberries from what I remember. And the adults drank a lot of sherry. First time I shot a rifle was in Basic, first and only time I held a firearm before that was when I was fourteen.”

“You’re daddy was a First Sergeant though, you’re really telling me he never taught you to shoot? Not even in the country?” Dugan asks, a little disbelieving. “He must have had guns in the house.”

“Not for huntin’,” Bucky replies, shuffling closer to the heat. “I mean, I knew we had a gun or two but I never knew where. He kept them locked up safe, except when he first came or went back from base. Moved em’ or sold em’ when we moved and he couldn’t lock them away anymore cause we didn’t have the room; I’m pretty sure. He didn’t really let me touch them until I was a teenager, when he was making sure I wasn’t out being a hooligan with one myself, and he definitely didn’t let me shoot it.”

“You’d really never shot one until Basic. Seriously? So your sniping skills are all pure God-Given talent then?” Dugan questions, face curling up into a grin that doesn’t for once doesn’t look forced when directed at him.

“I wouldn’t say God-Given, but_ talent_, sure.”

Dugan shakes his head, chuckling, puffing on the cigarette. “Fuckin’ unbelievable.” He mutters to himself, crunching the last of his fag under his boot. He settles his hands between his knees, and kneads his palms with thick fingers.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, looking back at him from where he’s crouched by the burning wood. “What? You’re not having another?”

Dugan typically chain smokes at least four in a night on watch, normally in a row, and he’s only on two so far. Bucky knows because he’s been awake listening to his match striking while he was waiting. Dugan looks out to the pass where the block of moonlight is coming in, and then clears his throat; looks Bucky in the eyes.

“Call me psychic,” he says, “but I’m getting the vibe there’s going to be a conversation here. I figured I at least could give it my full attention. Am I right or am I right?”

Bucky shrugs, “You might be.” He allows.

“So you don’t want to talk about beavers and bears?”

He mutters “It’s a good distraction” to himself, then sighs out in resignation, falls back onto his butt so the last of the fire is crackling to his right. “Steve thinks we need to talk.”

“Does he? Can’t say I disagree.”

Bucky groans in annoyance, “Yeah okay, I get it. I’m a turd and I’ve been avoiding you, no need to throw it in my face.”

“I’m not.” Dugan rebuts, “and you have been avoiding me, but you’re not all the way to being a turd. I'll go with three-quarters o' a way.” He lets the silence sit for a moment, watching Bucky lean his head back against the rock. When Bucky closes his eyes for a moment he asks, “Should I talk or do you want to talk first?”

Bucky sighs again, “I will.” He finally agrees, “Might as well be the one to kick off this party.”

Dugan snorts, “That what we’re callin’ it, huh?”

He settles back and waits him out, giving him his full attention.

“First things first; do you know why I’m pissed?” It’s a good place to start._ Step one: make sure they’re on the same page and not talking about two different things. Step two: talk it out. Make it clear._ If they're going to do this, he wants to make sure Dugan_ gets it._

He’s silent for a long moment, then comes back with: “The way I’ve been acting round you, or something I’ve said?” He guesses, then grunts immediately before Bucky can verbally respond. “Right so that’s a no, from your face right there.” Something else comes over his own, maybe realization; and maybe a bit of disbelief. “Is it…it’s not about that stupid fight on the march back is it? Really? That was ages ago.”

Bucky folds his arms stubbornly over his chest, glaring. He’s ready to throw in the towel right then and there and _fuck the consequences_ already. It must come across, as Dugan leans back ever so slightly in surprise.

“It is.”

“It wasn’t_ stupid._” He bites out. “And just because it was ages ago doesn’t mean it’s not important.”

“Or hurtful, apparently.” Dugan comments, seeing it.

“Jesus,” Bucky hisses out sideways, then looks back. “Do you even remember what you said to me?”

“Before you shoved me and told me to fuck off? Not word by word.” Dugan admits, but sticks to his conviction, “I was just trying to reassure you seeing aswell seeing as you were away with the fairies for nearly two whole days before.”

“You said, and I quote; ‘we know what they did you in there. That you _understood _what it must have been like’.” Bucky starts, voice hard, then moves to: “One - _you do not know what they did to me in there_ and you certainly _don’t_ understand what it must have been like. Were you tied up and strapped down so tight you couldn’t breathe? Where you cut open again and again_ and again,_ and stabbed with enough drugs to kill a horse? For weeks and weeks, and stripped and locked in a” He cuts himself off, sucks in a breath.

His heart’s pounding.

“No, so _how the fuck could you possibly understand_? Because you saw a few bodies? So yeah, fuck you for that. Two - how dare you fucking think that’s okay to say to me, what two days after I got out of that hell. I don’t care how good a friend you are - you don’t say that shit to me like it means nothing, with, I have no doubt, a follow up plan to push me to get over it like Steve and the rest of you fuckers keep trying to do. Stop pushing me, and don’t you fucking trivialize it”

“I wasn’t”

“You were”

“_No I wasn’t_.” Dugan interrupts sharply. “I didn’t mean to.” He emphasizes, leaning forward to press the importance of his words into him. “I didn’t mean to, Bucky. That wasn’t my intention. I didn’tfuck,” the man curses, “I didn’t realize you took it that way.”

Buck half-scoffs. “What other way should I have taken it?”

“I don’tI don’t know. Jesus, but I wasn’t trying to, what did you say? Trivialize it? God no, I was just - I don’t know, man. Trying to make you feel better? Make you realize that you weren’t alone.”

Bucky swallows, throat dry, at that. Looks away. Dugan continues:

“Clearly that’s not how you took it, or hell, maybe not even how it came across. Not the way I wanted it too anyway - I can be dense and pushy, I know I can be, but I didn’t mean tothat’s what this has been about? What you’ve been stewing on? All this time?”

“What it’s stemmed from.” Bucky admits after a short bout of glaring, “it’s been building since; little digs.”

“Have I been digging at you?”

Bucky shrugs, and tries to compromise where he can. “Well no, probably not, no more than you used to. But when that’s in my head…” he shrugs, struggling to find the words.

Dugan finishes for him, “It felt like I was.”

Bucky shrugs again.

“Right okay first off: Not my intention man. I didn’t realize that was still eating at you, or that, clearly it got to you that much. So, sorry for saying that shit, okay?”

Bucky nods.

“I guess sorry for anything else I’ve said too, if it went the wrong way. I can get nasty when I’m baited sometimes, and you were goddamn baiting me a lot…So what else can we do to get past this?”

“I dunno just…” Bucky sighs, “watch your damn mouth?” He phrases it as a joke to try and make it better, “which is an impossible ask, really, if I’m honest.”

Dugan snorts in amusement for a moment. “Right, so don’t say any stupid shit about it”

Bucky cuts him off. “Or anything about it. At all. Ever again. That would be great.” 

Dugan leans back and observes him for a long moment; a moment that feels close to a minute even though it’s probably not. _Nothing at all?_ He seems to say. Bucky stares at him dead on.

“Leave you to it then?” He says instead.

Bucky nods. Dugan nods back.

“And just so we’re clear; I don’t know what you went through. I don’t and can’t understand how you feel, so I’ll stop trying. You satisfied with that?”

“More than satisfied.”

“Alright, so we good? It’s that simple?”

_Sometimes it is_. Sometimes all that is honestly needed is a good old apology. Apologies are important.

“Anything you want to say to me?” Bucky asks, just to clear the air.

“So long as you stop the King Cold attitude with me, then no. I just wanna’ go back to what we were - or at least,” he adds, “as much as we can be.”

“Then we’re good.”

Dugan grins, and laughs, his moustache bouncing. He slaps Bucky on the shin. “Well seeing that that’s all out in the open, can I have my fucking cigarette now?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Go ahead, smoke yourself to death.” He’s already lit one and is two puffs in. “Jesus.” Bucky can’t help but mutter to himself.

“You wanna’ go back to sleep?” Dugan asks, “now that it’s done?”

Bucky shakes his head, and shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve got next watch so…”

“Not for hours, yet.”

Bucky shrugs again, and settles back against the rock to his back. He tosses two logs on top of the ashes, and adds some dry leaves from the pile they collected. He lights the fire again with his lighter. He says he’s not tired to Dugan, and they sit in a returned comfortable silence as the man smokes his nightly cigarettes. The smoke builds and builds and drifts around his head, and the fire catches, and he’s so close that the spitting sparks leave tiny holes in his cargo pants. Dugan nudges him, noncommittal, when he notices, and Bucky shifts a little further away, but not far. He scratches at his arm over his jacket, and then somehow; Dugan is shaking him awake from a sleep he doesn’t realize he’s fallen into.

“Think you inhaled too much smoke.” He jokes, “You drifted off, drowsy as anything.”

“Oh. I did?” Bucky asks, lifting his arm where it’s still resting over his other to scratch at his head. “How long did I sleep?”

“Four to five hours or so.”

“Fou? Your watch was supposed to finish in two hours.”

Dugan shrugs this time, “I left you to your furlough a little longer. Seemed like you could use it.”

Dugan is and always has been all smiles and boisterous laughter, obnoxious elbows in the side and wiggling eyebrows, but, above what gave him his humour - he was a good friend and a good man.

“Now if you don’t mind, I’m hitting the hay; keep the fire low yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky accepts, and crawls his body over to his tent to grab his Thompson. Dugan crawls into his own shared with Fletcher and Steve today, leaves him the torch. Bucky sits it between his boots, and starts pulling his guns apart, cloth and polish ready.

. . .

“Whoa, shit,” greets him in the morning from Jones and Morita’s tent, and a sudden scrabbling sound. Steve’s shadow sits up in his own tent, the noise obviously waking him. “Where the fucks my gun? Where the fucwhere the hell’s _your _gun?”

“Relax you megalomaniac,” Bucky calls from outside it. “I’ve got them here.” Technically he’s got Morita’s laid out still in pieces, but details-smetails. Jones face smacks it’s way out of the flap of the tent to stare at him; looking like a floating head.

Bucky has a small, or large, collection of firearms sat around him. They’re organized into piles, dirty and clean; and then further by ownership.

“For fucks sake Barnes, did you clean everyone’s?”

“I was on a roll.” He defends.

“And did you really crawl into each of our tents while we were napping to steal our guns to do it?”

“You were very adorable.” Bucky tells him. “Like a sleeping baby, sucking your thumb and everything.”

He hears Steve and Fletcher snort from inside their tents. “Oh shut up, Captain. You too, Fletcher.” Jones immediately retaliates. “Did you at least take that one’s shield for fairness sake, Mr Comedy?”

“I didn’t want to get clanged on the head, so no. I took your sidearm and knives though Steve.” He calls afterwards, and Steve starts swearing as he realizes he’s also had his weapons stolen from right under his nose.

“Geez, would you lot shut up? Some of us only got a half-nighter.” Dugan grumbles from inside, and Fletcher mumbles a sorry to him from his squished bedroll. Steve manoeuvres his way out, gives Bucky a look that very clearly says, _really?_

“Those are yours.” He says helpfully instead, pointing to a pile with a detached barrel, hammer in his other hand.

“Unbelievable.” Jones mutters, but there's no heat in it. He crawls back inside the tent to change his shirt while Steve does it outside in the cold, so as not to disturb Dugan. Fletcher’s still in with him, while Bucky had Dernier with him in his at the start of the night. Falsworth is out and recovering in London, hitching a ride with Carter and Stark when they left with the words of; “next time you see me the hole in my ass will stitched and sorted; and I’ll be limp free.” Bucky thinks he’s overestimating his level of healing, but who is he to dash a far-sighted dream; _they say you can conjure anything if you believe it enough._

“I’m not doing breakfast.” He points out, going back to his cleaning.

“No one wants you too.” Morita counters, crawling out of his own tent with astonishing bed head and a scabby scar. He still looks slightly dreadful, though it looks like his pupils have finally shrunk to a matching size, at least. “You burnt our last breakfast.”

“He burns all our breakfasts.” Jones notes unhelpfully from behind the canvas, tangled in his shirt. He swears, stuck in a sleeve, and Dernier’s voice and shadow laughs at him a few feet away through the two tent walls.

Morita sighs tiredly, rubbing the bruises on his side, still sore. He starts unpacking the kit bag. “I’ll take it this morning.” He decides, and asks: “Have you at least put the coffee on already?”

“N_op_e.” Bucky says, popping the o’ and the p’. “Didn’t need it.”

“I swear, you’re the only one who can do half a nights watch and not need a damn coffee.” Jim commiserates, “You and Rodgers of course.” He amends afterwards.

“Not my fault if I’m made of better stock than the rest of you.” Bucky fires back.

Steve joins him by the fire that he did, kindly, relight for them this morning at dawn. “This Jacques’?” He asks, and picks up the cleaned pieces of Dernier’s smaller sidearm he carries in a thigh holster, and starts helping Bucky put the pieces back together before he can give an answer.

“You should brush your teeth.”

“So should you.” Steve rockets back at him. “Heard you get up last night. Didn’t hear you come back before your watch. Did you…”

Bucky hums in confirmation. He can’t help but ask. “Did you listen in?”

“No.” Steve answers. “Went back to sleep. Didn’t think you’d want me too.”

_Got that right_. “It’s sorted. We cleared the air.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah Steve. We’re good now.”

“That’s great.” He says to finish, clicking the barrel back in place and popping it in Dernier’s finished pile. “I’ll be back to help you in a second with what’s left. Duty calls.” He squeezes Bucky’s shoulders, both of them, as he stands to take a leak, and Bucky sucks in at the two-second contact, letting it linger.

. . .

Bang. Boom. Crumble. There goes the bridge. Fletcher's camera clicks.

Move out.

. . .

Slash, switch, skid. Spark, sputter, sever. There goes that phone line.

Move out.

. . .

Has it been a week?

. . .

Attack, push forward, retreat; _it's a trick, we have em' on the ropes,_ move in. Fletcher's camera clicks. The weapons cache folds. Clear the area, clear the intel, don't clear the rubble. Fletcher's camera clicks. Move out. _Can we stop now?_

. . .

Following Captain America into the Jaws of Death it turns out isn’t always European mud, a mixing of bullets and Hydra uniforms and the occasional do-daring canoe ride; sometimes it’s just be a lot of staying in London while Steve talked to Philips and Philips talked to the even higher ups. 

They’re back in Britain now, and Bucky likes London; a bit of a duty break while they’ve been over the line for on the way to three whole months. It seems crazy, when he thinks about that time passing.

There are meetings he and the others are expected to sit in on in addition to planning their raids, cloistered in warm, yellowish rooms with Philips and Howard Stark - which Bucky still can’t quite believe, even now - and the pretty but inherently sharp Peggy, bent over the map Steve recreated from the four second look he got of one in the factory. It had been on the wall of the lab, not that Bucky noticed;_ or remembered_; but in London all it took was one look for him to know that wherever those parts were being shipped to wasn’t to any of the places Steve marked down.

Carter’s on it apparently. So is MI6 and the COI though honestly, Bucky’s starting to have more faith in Carter than he is the entirety of the department they’ve dedicated to it. Not that he’ll tell Steve that of course, he hardly wants to give him more ammunition for his running commentary.

Steve has always been really good with maps; his sense of space and distance and colour coming through in his sketches too.

The very first thing they had ever bonded over was a map actually. Bucky had been playing ball at recess with the other boys, and Michael Callahan was being _annoying-annoying_ instead of just the singular annoying and after the third day and the seventh shove and the twelfth _nasty-mean _comment, Bucky had thrown the ball at his head in a way that couldn’t be considered accidental.

And _of course_ the nuns had seen that but hadn’t seen the half-dozen shoves or hits or the close to a hundred horrible snipes and threats his big brother Arthur had dished out in the last month. They hadn’t seen him take Bucky’s _favourite-Friday-Birthday lunch_ his ma had made special for him last week - or listened to him when he told them just that.

“Violence only begets more violence” was what he’d been told; and they sent him off the yard to sit out with five hard swats to the arm. He was teary and even more angry than before when he stomped over to the picnic benches under a stern watch because _he didn’t start it so why was he the only one getting yelled at and hit?_

He was sniffling and holding his arm to his chest when he saw Steve sat on the bench opposite, tongue stuck out between his teeth while he coloured. It was hardly the first time he’d seen Steve Rodgers but it was the first time he remembered really speaking to the boy who always had to sit up front so he could see the board and hear the teacher well enough. He’d only been in half the year so far, really, but when he was in he was quiet and generally just kept to himself. That’s as far as Bucky could tell anyway. Anytime he wasn’t Bucky usually saw him rolling in the dust throwing punches or being shoved into it and _getting_ punched. Michael Callahan always said he was slow in the head to anyone that would listen.

But as far as Bucky was concerned right then and there; anything Michael Callahan said or thought could kiss his _big_ _perfect gyppo ass_, as his mama would say to his papa’s long-suffering groans.

“What did _you_ do?” Bucky had asked from the other table, leaning his head on his good arm and wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve; voice embarrassingly still thick from his upset shouting.

Steve Rodgers had glanced over at him suspiciously, like it was a trick. “What?” He answered in reply.

“I said what did you do, to make them make you to sit out?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Steve Rodgers replied, halfway to a defensive snap.

“It was just a question.” Bucky’d thrown right back, still feeling prickly himself. He remembers thinking _so much for finding a kindred spirit. That’ll teach you for trying to be nice._

Steve Rodgers pulled a childish face at him; sticking his tongue out. Bucky did it back. Steve huffed and went back to what he was doing. The other kids kept playing ball across the playground, or dolls across the way if they were girls. Steve Rodgers is the only one close enough to talk to. Bucky lasts about a minute, which back then is a considerable amount of time for him, and something to be proud of. “So why are you here then? If you didn’t do anything - everyone’s _playing_. What? You don’t like baseball? Or soccer?”

“Of course I like baseball, who doesn’t like baseball”

“Then why are you over here - doingwhat are you doing?”

Steve Rodgers mumbles something under his breath at that. Bucky rudely barks “What?” at him until he repeats himself.

“I’m not _allowed._” Steve finally snaps out, looking angrily embarrassed, which makes absolutely no sense if he hadn’t _‘done anything’_ like he’d said. Bucky’s utter confusion must show on his face, because Steve Rodgers relents. “Cause of my asthma.”

“Your what?”

“My asthma.” Steve Rodgers repeats, slowly, like Bucky’s an idiot. Which maybe he is, since he has no idea what_ an-sth-a-ma_ is.

“What’s an-sth-a-ma?” He asks, stumbling over the word. He sticks his tongue into the gap where his tooth fell out last week. He can’t feel the new one growing in yet.

“It means my lungs don’t work proper, not like they’re s‘upposed to.” Steve Rodgers explains peevishly. “Father Richards and Sister Judith don’t want me playing ball ‘cause of it.”

“Well that’s not fair!” Bucky cries in ignition, and Steve looks startled at the defence. “If you wanna’ play you should play. They can’t stop you”

“They kinda’ can.”

“Well they_ shouldn’t_. Tell them _no.”_

Steve Rodgers opens and closes his mouth like a fish, in complete bewilderment at the _very idea_ of telling the priest or one of the ‘nuns’ “_no”_, god forbid. It’s hardly new for Bucky, who just got his three extra cane-swats for talking back. Eventually, after looking down and back up again, Steve’s voice gets quieter, but kinder.

“They’re not doing it to be mean”

“I don’t believe you”

“They’re not! They’re just worried I’ll get an attack and can’t breathe again. It happened before, in September. You don’t remember that?_ Everyone_ saw it.” Steve replies with a red face.

Bucky shrugs at him. “I had the Chickenen Chi-ckening Pox in September, and then my sister had it and then my _cousins _staying with us - some of em’ are just babies - had it so Mama wouldn’t let me come in for _ages.”_

“You mean the Chicken Pox.”

“That’s what I said.” Steve Rodgers looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Bucky continues. “Maybe I weren’t in. I don’t remember no ‘attack’, whatever that means.”

Steve Rodgers swallows back that laugh he’s been holding, and explains. “It’s like my lungs and throat close up and I can’t breathe no matter how hard I try, and it gets worse once it starts. I have powder for it but it’s low and I’m only supposed to use it if it’s an emer-gen-cy.” Bucky remembers him struggling over the word, and himself struggling with disbelief at the revelation of what an-sth-a-ma was.

“What?” He breathes, aghast. “That sounds _really scary.”_

Steve smiles at him for the first time, but it’s a sad smile. “It is.”

“’m sorry.” Bucky replies. “Maybe they’re not being mean then - this time. But normally they are.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “The nuns aren’t mean.”

Bucky huffs. “What nuns have you been talking to?”

“They’re not! Most of them aren’t.” He finally allows to Bucky’s unbelieving splutter. “They’re women of God, they can’t be mean. Maybe you just caught them having a bad day - everyone has bad days.”

“That’s a lot of bad days then Steve.” He replies grumpily, and Steve takes an almost jolt back at Bucky using his name so casually. “Every day is a bad day with me. And I don’t see how they can’t be mean - God can be mean too.”

Steve gasps. “You can’t say that!”

“What?” Bucks retaliates defensively. “He is! He’s not very nice a lot of the time. The bible always talks about forgiveness but He didn’t forgive everyone in the Noah’s Ark story”

“It’s not a story”

“_Of course it’s a story_. But he didn’t forgive them, just Noah and his family and drowned the rest of the world. Doesn’t seem very nice to me. _And__”_ Bucky continues, now on a roll, “he just let Jesus die. What kind of papa does that? My papa wouldn’t do that.”

“He resurrected him though.” Steve argues. “Jesus sacrificed himself to save the world, and God brought him back to life. That’s the important part. _You’re missing the point_.”

“But he still died. And they _crucified _him. I’d be so scared - I’d want my papa to come save me - I bet you he did too. But he didn’t because God can be nice but he can also be nasty and mean too.”

“James!” Sister Agnes snaps, clearly having heard the last part of the conversation. “Stop bothering Steve. Leave him be.”

“I was just talking to him.” Bucky argues, “What’s wro”

He swallows back his words with a gulp, jumping further down the bench when the Sister whacks a ruler on the wood next to him as a warning. He looks stonily at the table as Sister Agnes, the nun who is normally one of the kinder ones, turns to Steve Rodgers.

“Sorry about that Steven, he shouldn’t be bothering you. He knows better.” She adds, glancing at him, because he kind of does; but obviously has made a particular impression today if even she’s being stricter.

“No it’s” Steve starts, “he isn’t bothering me, Sister. He’s right. We were just talking - about um, about the mass the Father gave on Tuesday.” He covers.

She raises an eyebrow, “Hmm? I see.” She glances at Bucky who’s still staring at the table. “Well as nice as it is to hear you discussing the finer points of his sermon, and your interest, perhaps the both of you should leave _a certain opinion_ be; and keep it to yourselves. I’m sure I can have a conversation about it after school with you - stop with the face James - if it’s so important.” She turns back to Steve. “How does that sound?”

“That sounds like a good idea Sister. We can do that.”

She nods at them both, and pats Bucky on the back as a small measure of kindness. “That’s very good, Steve, by the way.” She says as she leaves, motioning to the paper in front of him.

Bucky sniffs again, still staring at the table before glancing slyly at Steve, whose looking back at him. He wipes a sleeve over his nose again, and bites the corner of his nail. “What’s very good?” He asks curiously, but now quietly after getting caught. He’s still upset - he can’t seem to do anything right today - and _it’s not fair._

“Um, my map, I guess. I’m drawing a map.” Steve answers after a second and pauses again. _Then_ he asks, giving him a small smile. “Do you wanna’ see?”

Bucky’s answering smile is still a little wobbly, but he knows his eyes light up at the invitation, and he hops off the bench and skips over to Steve’s to take a seat next to him.

“It’s a map of the neighbourhood - or mine, I mean. I don’t know about yours.” Steve explains. Bucky remembers being floored at the gorgeous and painstaking detail, rendered in coloured pencils, labelled streets and shops and a colour-coded key in the corner Steve is still filling in.

“That’s the bakery.” Bucky identifies, “And the butchers.”

“Yeah!” Steve grins, excited at how easily he recognizes it. “And this is the school and…” he pauses to grin at Bucky, and after a moment seems to come to a decision and uses his pencil to draw two small rectangles in the yard to the side of the building. He picks out two blues and uses them to draw two stars next to one of the rectangles. “This is us, here. Right now.”

He labels one star as ‘Steve Grant Rodgers’ in the time that Bucky’s so flabbergasted at how he’s just been included so easily into this map Steve’s spent so much time on, and that he so obviously cares about. It’s at that very moment that he decides Steve Rodgers is_ nice; the nicest boy he’s ever met._

“Um.” He stops Steve before he can label the other as James. Steve stops at the hand on his arm. He suddenly looks very self-conscious at what he’s just done. Bucky finds he doesn’t like the expression.

“Can you write Bucky, not James?” He asks, “My family call me Bucky.”

Hearing that, Steve smiles at him brilliantly. “Bucky?” He confirms, then hands Bucky the pencil so he can write his name himself. Bucky scribbles it down, trying to keep it the same size and as neat as he can make it. He doesn’t want to mess up the map.

He spends the rest of lunch recess sat next to Steve and they point out and add a series of inspired landmarks they know about like “movie-house”“library”“best candy”“cheapest candy””candy easiest to steal.”

“We can’t put that on it!” Steve argues, aghast. Bucky inwardly thrums with the ‘we’ instead of the ‘I’ at the solo-turned-group project.

“But it’s _true_.” He whines. “Trust me. It’s so easy - if you - if you were going to steal. Not that I have.” Steve doesn’t look like he believes him, but for once he’s telling the truth. Doing it and just knowing it are very different. “Write it on.”

“No!”

_“Yes.”_

“Bucky---”

“What, are you scared the nuns are gonna’ see it? _Write it down.”_

Steve writes it down. He also draws in and writes down where the movie-house back door is all on his own, which really, shows his moral compass isn’t so far removed from Bucky’s.

“Never snuck in without paying, huh?” He comments, teasing.

“Never.” Steve lies, then glances at him shiftily and guiltily. “I wanted to see Mickey Mouse, okay.”

“Hey, I don’t judge.”

“You just steal candy.”

Bucky sticks his tongue out at him again, and Steve does it back.

“Why do you know so much about these blocks anyway?” Steve asks, focusing on a very very_ very _important bit of shading. “I thought you lived closer to Fort Green.”

“I do.” Bucky answers, swinging his legs. “But my mama comes here to shop, cause it’s cheaper - _and nicer to her_ -” he whispers, “and she brings me sometimes. And my papa takes me to Goldie’s gym to box with him - which is _so_ fun - oh wait we need to put Goldies’ on here!”

“Wait, _you box?_” Steve interrupts, stopping his shading. He looks impressed.

Bucky nods, then boasts. “I started this year. Goldie says I’m really good for my age. Pa says so too, but I don’t listen to that cause he’s pa, so he has to say that.”

“When do you go?”

“Tuesdays mostly. It depends - sometimes pa has to stay at base so we can’t go but when he’s home we go a lot. My neighbour Joe takes me sometimes when pa can’t.”

Steve continues looking impressed as Bucky happily gossips and then grins in astounding delight when Bucky tells him he’s punching _all wrong_. Eventually they go back to the map - and Bucky sees while his house is off the map Steve’s labelled his own building which is in the sketchiest part of town. Bucky’s nice too, or so he likes to think, so he doesn’t say anything.

The bell rings, and Bucky’s really sad as Steve packs the map away. He huffs; they have Sister Judith next and she’s still probably in a bad mood with him.

“What did you do, by the way?” Steve asks as they start walking, and side-steps out of the way as Bucky starts swinging his arms to rile up the energy up to cope with the next class. “To get sent to sit over by me?”

Bucky shrugs, “Michael was being mean, so I threw the ball at his head.” He says simply, which compared to what he yelled at the nuns is extremely _emphatically_ watered down.

Steve gives him a look that is a little disapproving. Then something changes, and he asks, “Michael Callahan?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh.” Steve adds, as if that explains everything and makes it okay. It probably does explain a lot, when Bucky thinks about Michael calling Steve _slow _and _dim_ and other words Bucky doesn’t know, and how he shoves Steve around too because he’s small. “Did you hit him?”

“I was _this close_.” He replies, using his thumb and fore-finger.

“Maybe next time then.” Steve says.

“Buddy, if there’s a next time I’m gonna’ get caned into next year.”

“Better do it in front of a nice nun then.”

“There are no nice nuns.” Bucky sing-songs at him as he skips inside.

The next day Michael shoves him to the ground again with Arthur Callahan, his big_ big_ brother behind him, calls him a ‘snitch’ and a ‘rat’ and tells his friends to grab Bucky’s arms and hold him still. Goldie says he good for his age,_ yes, but he's not this good._ Arthur is very big, and there's way _way_ too many of them.

It’s early morning before the bell, and there’s no nuns or teachers to see them take his lunch and go to hit him. Suddenly, there’s a small blonde blur and then _Steve_ is punching _Michael _the way Bucky taught him only yesterday.

“Leave him alone!” Steve yells, and then gets punched back. The punch quite literally floors him, but in no way does it stop him - he just gets straight back up - gasping and coughing.

Like a match striking Bucky and four other boys, emboldened in that they’re not alone join in against Michael and his friends - like a block fight - and there’s so much dust and so much yelling _all_ the nuns come flying out.

Steve has an asthma attack by the end, and Bucky sees what the nuns mean, but also sees how Steve didn’t let it slow him down until he finished or was forced to finish. They wait until he’s recovered and then pull him by the ear like they did Bucky and the other boys to the principals office and yell at him to _sit! _Sister Judith paces in front of their sorry lot with her ruler until their parents arrive.

His father’s the one who comes; home from base; broad-backed and large in the doorway, moustache thick. Several of the boys that are left shrink at his size and look between each other worriedly to work out who belongs to this bear of a man.

His pop only has eyes for him though, hard but also exasperated, like he knew this was coming.

Bucky licks his split lip, tasting blood.

“Apparently,” his pa comments, “you’re a_ ringleader._”

“Am I?” He counters right back.

“James!” Sister Judith snaps, starting towards him.

His pop holds out a hand to stop her, and with an almost put-upon sigh motions him out of his seat and into the main office. “You’ve your mother’s mouth. Get in there.”

“Sir yes sir.” He shoots out of his seat, and darts away from Sister Judith’s direction. His pop steps into the space between them, hand on his back fueling him forward.

Steve, who’s sat on a chair closest to the door waits until his pa’s blocking Sister Judith’s view of him and grins, bloody nose staining his teeth pink. He nods at him as if in alliance. Bucky grins right back.

His pa clearly clocks it.

“Do I want to know?”

Bucky squeezes his arm and bounces on his toes; far more happy with that to care about getting smacked in the jaw or getting in trouble. He tells his papa proudly.

“I made a friend.”

“I wish him all the luck in the world then.” His pa murmurs quietly, and clears his throat to shake the principals hand.

.

.

.

“Well, what do you think? Bucky?”

.

.

“Barnes.”

.

“_Bucky._”

“Oi.” Morita calls, slapping him on the arm. He jerks, flashing back to underground sunlamps and the way his uniform sits on his shoulders. The ache of his split lip fades and disappears, along with his pop’s hand on his back. They’re all staring at him. He barely contains the rude “What?” that automatically goes to spurt out of him; as if they’re the crazy ones.

“Sorry.” He says instead, “Repeat that.”

“About the approach.” Falsworth fills in for him kindly, as always filling in anything he misses while Bucky’s trapped in the shadow. He’s the only one sat in a chair. “We’re thinking of moving in and hitting the North-West first, coming in here and here.” He motions with the arches of his palms, pushing in closer over the new surveillance photos of their next target base. “A pincer move.”

“You know it might help the planning of this mission,” Howard Stark says, with a sarcastic tilt, “if you actually_ paid attention to the planning of this mission.”_

“Sorry.” He repeats, still a little star struck - and embarrassed - to be caught out in his presence. The others he cares about, but doesn’t _care about_ aside from them potentially benching him; but they’re too far gone to do that now. Carter’s the most dangerous for that after Philips, but Philips isn’t here this time at least. “I was just thinking.”

“About what? Do tell.” Stark challenges, which really,_ is that needed? _His star-gaze shrinks a little bit, and he rallies.

“Would it not--” He flicks his eyes quickly over the birds-eye map and photographs of the base, and prays this hasn’t already been mentioned while he was _out. _“Would it not be better to come from here and here; with my perch over here to cover the back instead?”

“Why would we do that? If you’re over there you can’t cover us and there’s nothing round the back - unless you want to waste your time shooting at a wall.” Dugan counters.

Bucky frowns at him. “Well, no.” He argues, more confident now he knows his suggestion hasn’t already been mentioned; but also -_ what? _“I wouldn’t be. There’s a door there.”

“What? Like fuck is there a door there--”

“There’s no door, Barnes.” Stark says, rubbing his head.

“Yes, there is. Look.” He says, pointing to a photo, which does just show the back wall backed by cliff rock on the edge of the valley. It’s a good position, location speaking, for a secret base.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m also just seeing the back blank wall here.” Morita adds.

“_Oh my god_.” Bucky shakes his head in disbelief. He motions to the grass and dirt in front of the wall. “There. The dirts been shovelled out to make a small path. Why would they shovel a path out if there’s no exit? And look; footprints.”

Steve snatches the original surveillance photo off the table with shocking speed as soon as the words are out. He looks at it closely. Bucky flicks his way back through the other photographs to where he saw the rock-face split in the background of another.

“Cap?”

“He’s right.” Steve concludes, huffing in astonishment. “There’s footprints, and what must be a path.”

“Where?” Carter demands.

“Right in the corner at the edge of frame.” Steve goes in and points it out to all the others; and they grumble at first but then have to agree.

Bucky’s a little confused, because it seemed so obvious to him - even if the footprints were invisible to their current extremely faint - the dirt has still been shifted. It’s such a logical natural thought that it’s a little strange that it seems to only have occurred to him. He’s still flicking through the photos, trying to find the one he’s looking for, but he can feel Steve’s eyes on him.

“It’s not in any of the frames but logically…” Steve breathes, “yeah. It must be in a blind-spot, the scout was moving undercover - he didn’t get every angle.”

He finds the photo he wants. “Here.”

He lays it on the centre of the table, and Dugan, Falsworth and Steve immediately lean in. It’s of a much wider view of the whole base, from the angle the boys were planning on hitting it from. He’s not looking at that though - he’s looking behind it to where the wall-of-the-hour sits next to, and almost on, the rock-face that’s a little shorter than the tallest chimney. In the middle of the cliff there’s a split, and a sharp drop as if a river used to run down it before it dried up. He moves that picture next to the footprint one and another so they line up. All the boys, Carter and Stark now lean in closer to look.

“There’s no door in either of these from each corner so the blind-spot is this whole area in the middle.” He draws a circle on the photograph in ink. “It’s also probably hidden, but the blind-spot almost lines up to this crack and gap.”

“A ravine used to run through there. The Polish built a damn further up the hill, what, fifty years ago.” Peggy adds, “it was in the geographical report of the area. I was looking at terrain, I didn’t think anything of it but - you think they’ve turned it into a road - an escape route?”

Bucky shrugs, “Makes sense. I mean, it’d be pretty stupid not to if the opportunity is there. It’s not like there’s gonna be anyone around to spew the beans about it that far out.”

“Fuck me.” Gabe breathes.

“If we hit them and they try to retreat they’ll either run south in the open; which is thick as hell but if they’re desperate they’ll probably try it--” Dugan says, “or they’ll come streaming out of there - which is hidden, covered and probably has a fuck ton of tunnels all over the place to hide out. Seems a pretty easy choice to me.”

“_If _there’s a door there.”

“I think it’s pretty clear there must be a door there, Howard.” Steve counters right back. “Even if we can’t see it. Right that changes it then. Where’s the best perch for you?” He asks Bucky outright.

He glances up in surprise and back down at the directness, but it’s not the first time Steve’s delegated. “If I was covering the exit - well, there.” He says pointing to the map, “but I could also set up _here_ on the corner. There’s slightly less cover but that way I could watch your guys’ backs from that angle too and switch.”

“But is that gonna’ interfere with the aim at the door - and the distance, it’s a lot further.”

“I can make them.” Bucky assures, “I’d prefer it if I could switch between you and that if I need to.” It would be a lot of work and take a lot of awareness - but he’d much rather keep as many of them in sight as he can.

Steve nods at him. “Okay. So, new approach - North-west side direct and…”

“East’s the best option to hit, it’s the next heaviest armed - but the South’s open to the elements and to another retreat.” Falsworth says, “If they run or even try to come round the sides of us those are the two options they have.”

“They’ve got heavy artillery. We can’t split the team up further.”

“We can’t let them escape though. Again.”

“Then approach from the south.” Bucky argues.

“But we can’t leave the North-West side unbattled, that’s where the heavy hitters are. If we leave them they’ll turn it back round on us like _that._” Steve clicks his fingers to signify.

“Oubliez l’approche surprise. Dessinez-les et faites-le sauter derrière eux.” ****(“Forget surprise approach. Draw them out and blow it up behind them.”) ****Dernier speaks from the corner, fingers on his chin.

“What was that Jacques?”

He repeats himself, and explains in short sharp English. “On the North-West. Go in before at night, set charges on artillery. Draw them out to main road. Boom. Surprise. Boom again. Then hit from South and East - cut off exit routes--”

“And force them out towards the old ravine.” Howard concludes.

“And Barnesy-Boy can pick em off in the narrow pass.” Dugan adds, grinning. Then adds, “But if we’re using it there - what about the rest of the base - we can’t leave that standing---”

“Eh.” Dernier waves like it’s nothing. “We blow that up too. After.”

“Do we have enough explosives for that?” Steve asks.

“I’ll get him more.” Peggy assures immediately.

Howard rolls his eyes, “Which means _I, Howard_ will make him more in Peggy-speak .”

“Well you might as well make yourself useful while you’re here, otherwise what’s the point?”

“How you wound me so Pegs. And I thought things had improved since our fondue.” He winks at Steve who studiously ignores him. Dugan and Gabe both stifle their laughter quite admiringly.

“I can make some too - with more french _ooh la la.”_ Dernier throws in with a grin.

“Oh Jacques, you sly bastard.” Morita jokes, hand on his heart. “Everything’s better with a bit of french _ooh la la_.”

Dugan laughs, “Now that sounds like a plan!”

And that seems to be the end of that official but unorthodox commando cabinet meeting.

_Christ_, Bucky thinks, _Thank god he did actually pay attention when he was trying to cover his own ass._

It’s so easy now - to get lost in his thoughts for just a moment before it spirals and then, when he wakes, he’s staring blankly in front of him and the clock is two hours ahead of what it just was. It came in spitfires and bursts at first - a couple of moments or minutes but like a crescendo it’s slowly been building into long unmemorable hours he can’t remember. Now he can’t blame it on the drugs, just on himself.

He’s lucky this time.

He’s also terrified it could happen in battle.

“Hey.” Steve calls, slapping him on the shoulder as they enter a narrower corridor. He tenses a little but doesn’t jerk like he wants to. ”That was a good spot there, Buck. Critical, actually. Could have gone to absolute hell if you hadn’t caught it when the rest of us didn’t. So thank you.”

He shrugs in response. “You’re welcome I guess.”

It’s only after he says it that he realizes it came out just a tad too dull and dead.

“Hey. You okay?”

He wipes his nose on his sleeve and shakes him off. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I’m fine, just a bit tired.”

“You look it - no offence.” Steve adds softly, trying to catch his eye. “Maybe you should take a nap if you’re feeling rough. It…it looked like--”

_Like I was loosing time, Steve? That’s because I was._

“I’m fine.” He assures, again. “But you’re right. I might go lie down for a bit before the next meeting.”

“Okay.” Steve replies, letting him go. “But--Buck?”

He waits until Bucky turns back to look at him, and then his eyes roam over Bucky’s body and the utter stillness of it. It’s probably still unnatural to him, just as it’s still unnatural to Bucky to look at Steve and not see his bony collarbone, elbows and knobbly knees. He feels like he should bounce on his heels or swing his arms like when they met to reassure him further, but can’t seem to make himself even relax his back let alone loosen up the rest of his body with a jiggle.

“Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

“Sure thing, Steve.” He lies. “Will do.”

He doesn’t sleep when he gets back to his bunk inside the basement - he tries, but he’s too wired. It’s easier to loose himself when he’s awake than it is to simply sleep.

Instead he sits on the floor and closes his eyes for a minute or two. He opens them thinking it’s been twenty - realizes it hasn’t even been four. It’s the reverse of what he’s used to - so he kicks his boots off so he’s in his socks and braces a hardback book Gabe picked up somewhere on his knee to use as a backing for his letter writing.

_Dear ma,_

_How long has it been since my letter got to you? Timings are a funny thing here. Will you tell me of home?_

He begins to write, and seems to let an hour pass before he finishes the single page. He adds; because he lost his nerve in the last two letters, if she can write out the third verse of _Für __Elise_ to remind him of it so he can play it for Jacques one day, so he can get his Treble Clef. He crosses out the long line afterwards, fed up of pretending here as well as there and just says: _Can you draw me a Clef mama?_

He takes a long moment to look over the letter. It’s short in comparison to his first and second, which was just a lot of explaining, not-explaining and talking-not-talking, and it starts off neat but as the lines go on the letters begin to slant and cross over one another more and more. One line of writing drops down off the dotted line even, but he finds he doesn’t care. He reads over it again, confident that it contains nothing that will need to get blacked out before it’s sent and received. He fills in the address at the top, and folds it into the envelope he has ready on the side-table to be sent off tonight.

He climbs onto the cot and stares at the ceiling, Gabe’s book lonely by his knee.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello friends! I thought I'd surprise the lot of you and give ya a chapter a week early, and one that includes a pretty adorkable meet-cute, if I do say so myself. With luck this one is a bit more of a fun-time than the last somewhat depressing chapter. Hopefully I made you laugh, and hopefully this is a nice distraction from these continuing troubling times. And, finally THANK GOD, Bucky and Dugan have gotten over their silly (long-so-effing-long) tiff. Miracles do happen! 
> 
> What are we thinking about it all? Let me know, I'd love to hear from you! 
> 
> PS. TREASURE HUNT HINT: As I whispered to Hakanaki in their last comment - they once put forward a theory to me about theorizing that the serum works almost like a cancer, in that it's slow growing except that Steve speeds it up using the Vitachamber - and GUESS WHAT. Anyone notice any "serum growing stronger hints" throughout this last chapter? Lets see if you caught them! i am far too happy about this :D
> 
> REFERNCES:  
.OSS/COI: American Intelligence Agency - precursor to the CIA which was created officially in 1947 after a series of different short-lived organizations. Long story short: The US had about four different intelligence agencies, none of which wanted to share information - and so, generally, were all a bit shit.
> 
> .They worked closely with the British in London to gain information, training and experience as they already had a nationwide organized service created after the First World War. There was never an expectation that the OSS would continue to operate after WW2, despite the insistence on the necessity of a peacetime intelligence Agency like the British had but refused to admit to. They were given just ten days to dissemble the entire agency in late August 1945. Eventually, after two more brandings under different names the CIA was formed.  
MI6: British Secret Service. MI6 is it’s common name, though it’s also known as the SIS (Secret Intelligence Service) of Britain. It was established in 1920 after first growing in 1909 to support the UK’s National Security. The existence of the SIS was not officially acknowledged until 1994.
> 
> . The canoe mission was based off a real life WW11 mission by the SAS, in 1942 in a French port. It's known as Operation Frankton. Unfortunately none survived that particular mission, though it was a roaring success.


	29. PART 20 (a.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cap, we got you?” Comes out over it next - Jesus Christ, what?
> 
> “You got me--” he snaps, annoyed they’re not listening to his orders now of all times. “I said go dark. Over.”
> 
> “You’ll be glad we went light.” That’s Dugan. “New morse through--”
> 
> “What?!” Steve snaps out, still running and inadvertently interrupting them. The longer they’re on these unsecured short waves the more dangerous is it.
> 
> “One word - Schmidt. ”

STEVE

_**[STAMPED]** DATE RECIEVED: 20TH of March 1944_

* * *

** WESTERN UNION MAIL, American Mail Services **

** _CPT. Steven Rodgers,_ **

** _189th Commando Unit, P,0 459, London_ **

** _10th of March_ **

_Steve,_

_Meant to send this ages ago. Like months. I’m terrible. Your landlord dumped a bunch of your mail on ma’s doorstep thinking it was Bucky’s - he used to own our other place too, so he knew us. It’s old. From last year, back in good-old summer, you know - when you were touring the country and not tellin’ no one about it. You cheeky fucker. Figured you might want them anyway. Have you written me back yet? I want answers - I’m very impatient. You know this. Anyway:_

_Jenna gave them to me, this is the last time I will act as a messenger pigeon._

_Becks._

.

.

.

DATE RECIEVED: 27TH JULY 1943

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - CLEARED] _

_TO_: STEVEN RODGERS 

12 BLUE RIBBON ON MAIN, KNAPP STREET, BROOKLYN, NY.

_FROM:_ BERT KEATING

_SENDERS ADDRESS: _SUBMARINE SQUADRON 50, SUB: BARB 

DATE: 3rd JULY 1943

* * *

_Dear Steve, _

_It’s the evening before your birthday. It’s quite hard to realize this and not have alcohol on me to pour down my throat or your throat. I’ll just sort of skip this year and we’ll all celebrate twice as much next year, or the year after. Who knows how long this war will take. We docked into port and stayed in a fine building last night, in Liverpool. And may again tonight. It’s funny how much a building and free fresh air can mean. This is the first time we’ve been up since our arrival when we first really dived; first time we’ve made real port. Most of the people here seem to be quite glad to see us. _

_They throw fruit, but I don’t think they’re throwing it at us. And we wave quite happily. I hope you have a happy birthday back over there and you aren’t worrying too much about me - or Bucky - he’s shipped out now too, hasn’t he? I’m really quite alright. And even enjoying my little trip up to now._

_Best, _

_Bertie Keating._

* * *

_. . ._

Before they leave Steve goes to drop off his letters and Army correspondence to the mail department; secured post; and V-Mail. He has two for each, and the two V-Mails are another one for Becca of course as he’s getting antsy with how long his other is taking - and one for Bertie. His first thought of Bertie came all the way back in France, when he was smoking with Morita, but he hasn’t forgotten him; he’s just had to hold off until they returned to London for him to start hunting for information. He finally got his answer; and finally managed to track down the correct submarine his friend is stationed in, and it’s a different one to the one he shipped out on. He’s on _Herring _now, where when he left in 42’ he left in _Barb_.

Bertie, the second real friend he ever made in his life, he met when he was nineteen in his first life-drawing class and by twenty they were fast becoming partners in crime in the protest circuit. Bertie was skinny and bony like Steve but tall and dark-haired, and strikingly confident. Where Steve was captivated about just drawing and exploring everything he could get his hands on in the world of Art and Art History - Bertie was wild about ceramics.

They’d gotten close when Steve had bumped into him at a SWP rally and done a double-take, not expecting the guy who practically bled money to be stood with the poor immigrants and steel-toed shoed men.

“My parent’s don’t exactly approve. Or know.” He’d revealed with a grin, and then started chanting furiously; pumping a sign up in the air with his fist.

After that, Bertie had come with a sister, Courtney, and Courtney had come with Isabelle, _in more ways than one _she’d whispered to Steve once, tipsy and probably horny, and Steve came with Bucky. For a time; for _years _actually, the five of them were a little posse’, running about town and getting drunk together at Bertie and Courtney’s parent’s condo, the pair of them shockingly but not rub-it-in-your-face family rich. Normally Steve mostly talked to his friend or Bertie, while Bucky spoke to everyone.

It’s a different kind of friendship he has to the one with Bucky, and though not as sunken deep and poignant, it’s still special to Steve. Because of Bertie he experienced what is was like to be included in a party of more than just two, and never once did he feel like he was third or even fifth wheeling. He and Bertie enlisted together; the first time; two weeks after Pearl Harbour. Though where Steve chose the Army; he chose the Navy, training up as a torpedo and sonar technician on the submarines. It’s is and was good fit for him; always detail oriented, and not one to get caught up on the claustrophobia.

When the letters change hands into the Outgoing box Steve sees Bucky’s also put a letter in. It’s his handwriting on the front of the envelope he’s pretty sure anyway. _Don’t look,_ he tells himself -_ don’t be nosy, don’t be nosy_, but he looks anyway. Bucky’s writing his ma again. Part of him deflates in relief without his fully being aware of it; _at least he’s talking to someone._ He hopes. He prays. Look’s likes Jones has got one in too, from the corner stamp underneath.

“Ready to go, sport?” Howard asks from behind him; dumping a collection of secured research memo’s in the clerk’s hands, who automatically slides them through the slot in the secured cage-like room to the next person in authority.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Steve replies with a grin.

“Give em’ hell, swell.” Howard says, “Bring me back some more presents to experiment with, will ya? I need a change of scene from my own work for a bit.”

Steve huffs as they walk back down the corridor. “That pedantic is is?”

Howard sighs, and shakes his head. “You’ve got _no idea_, pal. Engines and firepower are one thing but nu--” He cuts himself off, as if realizing he should probably stop. He shakes his head again. “Let’s just say I’ve been putting my toe in on things not normally in my field, and it’s going about as well as combining Einstein’s Theory of Gravity and Quantum Mechanics.”

“I don’t know what the means Howard.” Steve replies with some amusement.

“Oh, right. Peg- ahem, _Carter_ likes to pretend she does half the time. Like oil and water then.”

“Ah.” Steve says, nodding. “Well, you’re a jack of all trades, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“You know the complete saying is ‘Jack of all Trades, master of none,’ right?”

“Is it? Who knew?” Steve replies innocently.

Howard snorts beside him. “All I’m saying is I could do with being thrown across the room when I poke something again. It’d be a good distraction. That way I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket.”

“Sounds fair.” Steve answers, “just don’t spread yourself too thin, Howard. You’ll only burn yourself out.” Howard despite his always cheery disposition does look rather worn out; stressed. Steve wonders what field he’s dipping his toe into to have him so squirrelly like this; “if you ever need an ear, confidential or not mine are open; for the record. I’m mostly cleared to hear everything, so you shouldn’t get in too much trouble.”

“Only about seventy-five percent chance of getting tossed in the pit if I tell you.”

“Good odds that.”

Howard snorts again, “I’ll keep the open ear in mind, and for the record - don’t spread yourself too thin either, bucko’, the way you were running round Europe last month was insane; one minute you were one place and then next you were two countries over. How the hell Carter and your boys kept up I have no idea.”

Steve huffs a smile, “yeah well, I think it’s safe to say I tired them out. I may have gotten a bit over-excited with the freedom. These two weeks back here have been good, with the planning - at least it lets everyone including me get some time to catch up on sleep and the newsreels.”

“Even if you’re now one of the main newsreels?” Howard teases.

“Don’t remind me.” He replies with a roll of his eyes. Corporal Fletcher is going out with them again for most if not all the assignments; their own personal photographer and movie maker. It’s lucky he’s a good fella’, and Steve can hardly be sore about it when he’s just doing his job. He twists to the side against the wall to allow Private Lorraine room to pass through the corridor with a stack of files.

“Not planning on dipping your toe in that pool again, are you?” Howard can’t help himself. Maybe he moved a little too fast to be considered just polite.

He chuckles, “no. Not dipping my toe anywhere near anyone.”

“Except Carter?” He glances at Steve, who gives him an assessing but wary look in return. Howard rolls his eyes. “Just cause we didn’t ‘fondue’,” this again, is designed as a friendly tease, “doesn’t mean we don’t know each other, Rodgers. We do talk occasionally.”

“How occasionally?”

“Occasionally enough that I know she routed around for an old newspaper clipping, and ended up writing her parents to have them send her the copy they saved when it was first published because she couldn’t find it. I know she doesn’t have the clipping anymore.” He adds, then raises and eyebrow and gestures to Steve, who, in fact, currently has that very same newspaper picture stuck to the inside of his compass, in his very pocket, at this very moment. “Does that answer your question?”

“Only dipping my toe in one pool then.” He admits, “and no intention of doing anything else.”

“Nice.” Howard says after a moment as they turn a corner. This newly classed, and newly requisitioned secret underground SSR base is almost as much as a maze as Churchill’s War Rooms are, and it’s the new main base of operations for their department. “Not normally my style, mind, but each to their own.”

“Not all of us can be rich, a genius philanthropist _and_ an expert in the ladies all in one go Howard.”

“Exactly, my friend._ Exactly_. Privacy’s not normally a factor with me, but I can see why it would be for her.”

“There’s a lot more to the privacy than just personal.” Steve notes quietly, maybe as a little warning. “It’s professional too.”

“That I know.” Howard says, “I take it this is code for: ‘don’t spread this around you gabby humdinger, we’re keeping this quiet.’ Jeepers, you two are made for each other.”

Steve laughs, “She throw the same thing at you then?”

“The words were far more pointed, with no humdingering slang; the English have standards unlike us American knuckleheads from the wrong side of the tracks; but essentially, yes.”

“Wrong side of the tracks?” Steve questions, surprised, but…not. Actually he swears there had been a conversation once about Stark Enterprises; and how it was all self-made. Bucky regaled him with a whole speech once as payback for Steve spending two hours talking about Michelangelo.

“Didn’t think I _inherited_ all my shine, glory and the green that pays the bills, did you? All self-made, my friend, and very proud.”

“You should be.” Steve says, because _absolutely_; talk about rising up line of poverty; Howard leaped past that and jumped three class systems all in one go. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“Yeah well, most articles about me just stick to the Casanova picture, and less about the Lower East Side origins.”

“Lower East? You’re a New Yorker?” Steve asks, bewildered, and nudges Howard with a hand. “I thought you were from California.”

“Nah,” He waves off with a flapping movement of the arm. “I just live there now for the quality of life. Sun, beaches and movie-stars - I’m about the fast life.” Howard grins, then explains. “My father sold fruit, my mother sewed shirtwaists for a factory. I worked out pretty quick society throws out limits on one’s success based on gender and economic status, and I wasn’t really for that same life as my folks. I wanted more. And let me tell you, you don’t climb the American ladder without picking up some bad, and good,” he smirks at Steve, “habits along the way.”

“And the women are a good or a bad habit?”

“I leave that decision to each man’s desecration.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

Howard nudges him back, following him into their barracks to collect his pack. “It was darn good having you lot back though, a good change of pace. I was practically worshiping Dernier when he came at me yesterday with a pile of explosives.” He laughs, “dynamite is always a good distraction from the monotony of science.”

“Don’t tell Bucky that, he practically worships your science.” Steve tells him over his shoulder, bending over to ruffle in the pack led on the trunk at the bottom of his cot.

Howard raises an eyebrow. “He does?”

Steve laughs, “Don’t tell me you couldn’t tell from the star-struck gaze he’s been giving you near everyday before yesterday?”

“Star-struck?”

“Pal,” Steve commiserates, “engineering is his _thing_. Architecture too - or at least, it was. Sniping is his thing now. He always used to go on about your inventions when you first founded your company, on and on and on until I wanted to throw something at him. We went to your World Exposition show in May last year.”

“What,_ seriously_?”

Suddenly - realizes that pride has appeared in Howard’s tone. _Oh what has Steve done?_ H_as he just made the ego worse? _Peggy’s going to have his head, and Bucky too, for spilling about his secret crush. Oh well, go hard or go home. “Red flying car ring any bells?”

“Urgh, _yeah_. How could I forget that collamity in front of a crowd of a hundred and fifty. It was working in the goddamn lab, scouts honor.”

Steve laughs at the promise. “It was his last night before he shipped out - that’s all he wanted to do. That and go dancing. Collamity or not I believe the words ‘holy cow’ were uttered quite sincerely.”

“Well good goddamn,” Howard says, “now he’s my favourite. Sorry, Rodgers, you’ve been booted out of first place.”

“I’m distressed by this unpredictable turn of events.” Steve utters quite sarcastically.

“Where is Barnes now then?” Howard says, “so I can go spend time with a man of real quality?”

“My mouth’s sealed.” Steve says, standing again. “It’s not just bullets I protect him from. I gotta’ protect him from over-eager rich men with suspicious agenda’s too.”

“My only suspicious agenda is bonding with someone who truly appreciates me. I haven’t had my ass kissed in so long Rodgers, you wouldn’t understand.”

Steve laughs, “here’s a deal. I promise to bring you back some Hydra crap for you to mess with as a distraction, and you promise to thoroughly embarrass him the next time you see him.”

“You sure you’re a good friend?” Howard asks with a raised eyebrow.

“We have a tally going. He has me on ropes, so it’s my turn and I haven’t engineered a prank in a while; it’s been a month and it’s putting a dampener on my record. Throwing sugar at his head is reserved for very particular moments. So do a favour for a friend, would you?”

“Just for that, my friend, you have a deal.”

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: [BLANK]

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - CLEARED] _

_TO_: ST. BERT KEATING

SUBMARINE SQUADRON 50,SUB: HERRING 

_FROM:_ CPT. STEVEN RODGERS

_SENDERS ADDRESS:_ 189TH COM-NDO. F.A.B.N, P,O BOX 459. LONDON 

_DATE: __14 _TH MARCH 1944

* * *

_Hey _ _ <strike>man</strike> _ _ Bertie,_

_It’s me, Steve. It’s been a while since we wrote, even longer since we last saw each other before you shipped out and took your first 5,000ft dive underwater. I miss our classes and parties I gotta’ say, but I miss our talks even more. I’m real sorry about that; I’ve been outta’ New York - nearly half a year now so if you wrote me whenever you surfaced I didn’t get them. So I was ignoring you but not _ _ ignoring _ _ you. I’m real sorry I was so sore the last time we saw each other too. I was still jealous that you got the 1A with the Navy when I didn’t with the Army, or anywhere, even though it had been months. So…sorry I guess. I realized I was being a shit when Bucky shipped out too last year in the summer, but I never actually said any of it to you._

_I got your details from Army Command after cross-referencing them with the Navy - finally - I’ve been trying to track down where you were stationed. I knew you were covering the Atlantic Waters, are you still there? Or have you moved to the Pacific now? Sunk any U-boats recently? How’s your skipper, any better? You mentioned he was a bit of a tough sell in the last letter I got from you. You still operating as the Sonar Technician, or are you working Navigation too now? I don’t know much about how it all works down there._

_You’re not going to believe this, but I did it: I’ve scammed my way into serving, Bert. The Army as well. Who woulda’ thought; guess God was listening to me after all. Only took five times with four different addresses and cities, but who’s counting? Ha!_

_I thought it was a joke myself first, but it’s a really long story and far too complicated to explain in a letter. That’ll probably make you ask even more questions when I think about it. I’ve been out here for a few months now - me and Buck are together. We’re okay, or - Bucky’s seen and been through a lot - a lot of bad stuff, he was a prisoner for a while - but we’re okay. I don’t know why I’m telling you that - knowing you it’ll just make you turn into a worry-wart again like you did with me with my asthma. We’re okay, alive - surviving - that’s the main thing. Are you good? Let me know. I know you only really come up to the surface every 75 days or something, so when you get this if you would write back? I’d love to hear from you. We both would. Stay safe, keep slamming those boats with torpedo’s - I’ve no doubt you’re doing a super swell job._

_Your pal; your favourite artist; fellow rioter, protest punter and the guy who owes you many bottles of smashed brandy…._

_Steve Rodgers_

* * *

. . .

They’ve decided to parachute down a deep ravine after many drawn out planning meetings. The wind hums against the sides of the plane, and the pilot’s transmission thrums out a number station.

Poland - in the heart of the Reich, is their next destination.

Corporal Fletcher is sticking with them to film the actual assault, and luckily is already trained in jumping from a plane as well as extensively trained to film in action, plus the usual firearm training - that’s why Command picked him. He's sat doing last minute checks on his equipment. Jones meanwhile has taken over on the radio from Jim, listening for the frequency Hydra might be using nearby before they enter the drop zone. Bucky’s sat nearby under the luggage nets with Dernier and Dugan, idly playing a hand of cards while they listen. Jones and Dernier shiver a little in the cold of the higher altitude, the metal beneath their legs chilly; Bucky’s back is hunched; tense in the cooler temperature; wrapped in layers; but not shivering.

Before they make the jump into Poland he calls Falsworth and Morita over instead to discuss tactics one more time - burying himself in plans. Falsworth, of course, is a fully fledged paratrooper and the best jumper of them all; Morita knows the stealth technology that will keep them safe during the jump. Morita holds up and then lays out the strings of delicate tin foil and wire they’re going to drop beforehand to muddle the Nazi radar systems he and Dugan finished twisting together yesterday. When they get out in the wind they’re going to rattle.

“It’s called chaff.” Morita explains again briefly, watching the wire and foil spin around his fingers. “Not that kind we use on corn of course but - better. It’ll throw them right off - why the hell they don’t use them in all the drop invasions I don’t know.” He adds after.

“Let the angels separate the wheat from the chaff - or better yet the Germans,” Monty says, and ventures off into some obscure saying. Steve withholds a snort as he seems to venture into Old English of all things. These sayings are as familiar as Bucky’s terrible puns and Dugan’s smokes and Morita’s hooch secretion now.

“You run your mouth too much, ace. What the hell you even talking about?” Morita jokes, breaking out in a grin.

“It’s not my fault you ingrates don’t have as much of a sophisticated education as I.” Monty replies wistfully and very over-importantly. He looses the act as his lip quirks up into a matching side grin. “This is great though, Jim. Well done.”

“Yeah, can you make more of this for the next jump we do? Is it complicated?”

“Nah,” Morita says, “so long as I got the materials - and I can always get those lazy asses’ defty fingers to help if we’re on a tight schedule.”

“Lazy ass? Just for that I’ll shove my defty fingers_ up_ your ass Jimbo.” Dugan says from the side. “You weren’t calling me lazy when my fast-as-fuck moves saved you from catching a bullet in the groin last month.”

“I had that under control.”

“Uh-huh, sure you did, big guy." Dugan waves off. "I fold.” He adds, laying down the cards. “Stop cheating.” Steve thinks that's aimed at Bucky.

“I’m not,” he hears as he focuses back on the conversation and plan in front of him. “Stop playing so badly and maybe you’ll stop loosing.”

"He probably is."

"_I'm not._" Bucky iterates, again. "I'm not you."

Dugan and Dernier blink - "Wait, what?"

"Nothing." Steve says quickly, aiming a stiff look at his friend. Bucky scrunches his nose up at him in return.

\--"No hold up, wait, Buckaroo - what you just say?"---

There's a stifled snort. "What did I say when?"---

\--"You know when. You know right shitting when---"

"Well he has you there, Rodgers." Monty says quietly under his breath beside him as Steve drowns them out.

"I have," Steve says, leaning forward to check a marked position on the map and it's coordinates, "no idea, what...you're talking about." HIs voice his drawn out and believably uncaringly innocent. Unlike Bucky Falsworth does not stifle his snort.

He prays to god and his ma, as he always does, that he’s made the right choice with this mission, but who can judge? Who decides; God, Jesus, the many gods of war, Command, Colonel Philips, the President, him? Who _can_ decide? _Who could tell what was chaff by the blind eyes of radar, and what was a man? Who could tell what death was a sin, what spilled blood was not?_

God, he thought too much, he needs to stop before they get away from him. He remembers Peggy’s words - there’s time for those thoughts later.

"Why do I feel like I'm missing something here?" Jim questions, wagging a finger at them both.

He taps the map so they focus again, then looks to Falsworth for confirmation of their plan. Monty, back to all business, clears his throat. “We’ll have a brief window in which to complete the drop - forty seconds for the jump over this territory here - and four minutes to drop total, so we’ll have to tip; up the speed until the end. Then release and hope none of us end up as flies on the cliff-face, or pancakes on the turf. We need to make sure we stay together, most importantly, to keep the parameters this time. Parachuting is not an exact science.”

“Well, _you_ make it sound like it is.” Morita says with a roll of his eyes. “And you’re saying that to the worst jumper here. Not exactly reassuring.”

“If you seem like you’re veering - yell out - one of us will swing out and latch onto you.”

“How about we all do that; at least until the last moment to get together before we pull?” Steve suggests.

“Might be easier to narrow down to the target - but harder to dodge if they do catch us - not that you can, you know, dodge Flak shells. Well," he allows, "you probably can. The rest of us not so much.”

Steve reckons for once someone might be over-estimating him instead of underestimating him. That's a new one for the books - he doubts he could dodge

“It is a tight squeeze for us non-experienced jumpers.” Morita pushes, so they agree.

When the time comes they each toss out two lumps of_ chafe_ \- and the next thing Steve knows he’s throwing himself out of another plane at Monty’s timed shout and slashed hand.

For a flushed moment there’s nothing but rushing wind, deafening whistles and so_ so much_ blue - so intense and loud Steve is consumed by it - just as he is every time. In these moments Steve forgets entirely about the parachute, and everything else - and if it were possible: it’s something he could live in forever - so radiant and bright - his gaze extending forever.

Then the next few moments come - and of all things he thinks of the bugs and other things he wouldn’t want to swallow at 120pmh. Then he focuses - slanting his body horizontal to slow down, arms up and out - Falsworth is in front of him, and he points to Morita just above them - a small dot falling away from their plane.

“Tip!” Steve yells at everyone as they exit - and they turn their bodies into straight lines - and_ down. _They drop at super speed. Steve keeps himself tilted so they can catch up; and then returns to it; and with a twist Falsworth veers away - and in one go he latches onto Morita; pulls him back into their tight drop circle. Dernier latches onto Steve’s leg; Bucky already attached to him; and each and every one of them crawl up each other - they find each others’ hands, join in a circle - tip forward - the wind tearing at their arms.

Steve’s reach feels delightfully expansive - the light pulls from everywhere - and sharp rattles echo in his ears; chafe falling in strings and strings and strings. He looks up - the plane disappearing in the blue - and their circle breaks - Jones shoving away from his hand - a Flak shell spikes through - and then - Steve has to drop Dernier’s too - and as three they twist themselves into a line to avoid a bombardment of red hot shell spikes; and then reconvene - out of range as their plane swerves out and draws the fire away - corkscrewing. The shots weren’t aimed at them; they’re so small they can’t be seen; and the shots at the plane are wide at best; going by sight not radar. Chafe still falls.

Then Steve’s eyes focus on green; varied shades in patches below - and a flush of watered blue. The ravine.

The clouds look less fluffy now - more ethereal and delicate. They swing back together and circle - tip; time speeding up and running out. Falsworth breaks away - signals a sharp X and they all pull their chutes - suddenly Steve’s upright in a jerk : the air is full of glorious quiet.

They each tug on the handles, steering - Steve and Jones’ feet skim the top of the cliff before it drops, and then they sink below the earth into the ravine with the others. Morita’s on target. Steve grins at him; and he returns it; pride on his face. They sail into a comfortable walk; some on land; and some over and in the shallow water.

Jumping out of a plane isn’t so much an adrenaline rush for Steve - more a overwhelming feeling of expansive peaceful delight. He sometimes wonders if he can do it without a parachute. 

“That was spectacular - Jesus - oh that footage is _pure gold_.” Fletcher announces with excitement once they’ve all cleared the area and ensured it’s safe.

Jones turns to him in incredulous bewilderment; “_What?_ Don’t tell me you managed to film that_ entire_ jump. Surely not.”

“Not the whole of it - got your landing though - that’s going in the movie for sure.”

Bucky freezes to his left, “What movie?”

“The movie - they’re making a movie of you lot. What, you didn’t know?”

“I thought it was just newspapers and the occasional newsreel!” Bucky protests, “did you know about this?” Steve shrugs, making a face. “And you’re okay with it?”

“It’s not his first movie - so I’m sure the Captain’s used to it.” Fletcher offers.

Bucky nearly drops his gun. He splutters dramatically, “Not his first--you’ve done _other_ movies?”

“The Captain America series - the fake landings, shoot-outs in a movie studio. For propaganda - where the hell have you been man?” Morita notes, shoving him.

“Even I’ve seen ‘hem.”

“See? Even Dernier’s seen them!”

“Clearly not paying attention!” Bucky claps back as they slide down a narrow passageway and up to exit the ravine. He turns back to Fletcher. “I’m not being in a movie--”

“Who_ are you_?” Steve interjects. “You’ve always wanted to be in a film before.”

“That was Becca, not me--”

“That was you. _Definitely you_.” Steve disagrees.

“Yeah well - things change then. I don’t want to be filmed - none of us do.”

“I quite like being on camera.” Dugan notes, obnoxiously stroking his moustache. “Fletch knows how to always get my good side.”

“It’s true. Though every side is your good side, Dum Dum.”

“Why thank you Fletch.”

Bucky scoffs; bad-natured. He mutters, "_Oh please._ Who am I with here ladies?"

Morita snorts. Dernier laughs. Jones notes; “my Charlotte’s excited to see it - so I’m alright so long as they get to see me whole and hearted. My parents too. “

Steve shrugs at Bucky when he turns to him for assistance. “Looks like you’ve been outvoted, pal. Not much to be done.”

“I’m not being in some stupid film.” He notes to pointless avail.

“On the bright side you won’t be in the main footage for this assault.” Fletcher notes lightly, “you’ll be away from the camera shots of pure beauty - so those tossers will be the stars of the show.”

"_Good_."

“I still don’t like the idea of you running into it under constant fire Fletcher,” Steve notes.

“I’ll be with you lot.”

“Yes, with us lot. Under intense heavy fire - with a _camera._”

“Not to argue with you Captain - but that’s my job. It’s not the first time I’ve shot footage in the battlefield - I’ve got a gun with me too - so I won’t be entirely defenceless.”

“Just mostly.” Falsworth notes.

“Just mostly.” Fletcher replies with a wink. “I know what I’m doing. If I die - I die - just makes sure you grab my camera after so it’s worth it.”

“Jesus, you’re worse than him in a different way.” Jones laughs - motioning to Steve right before Steve can say it himself.

. . .

Poland is very different to every other country he’s been in so far. The closest he thinks could possibly be Czechoslovakia, but it’s still far from the same. There are people on the streets, but nowhere for them to go. All the theatres', cinemas, cabarets, libraries, museums and schools are closed, or designated _Nur fur Deutsche_ (For German’s Only) which reminds him uncomfortably of the (For Whites Only) signs that hang on most of the American establishments he knows. The only books in shops and on offer are Polish to German dictionaries, or anti-Semitic and anti-communist novels; all other Polish-language books are prohibited; burned or locked away. Banned literature includes maps, atlases, educational and scientific texts and anything that could inspire learning or Polish patriotism. Many treasures of Polish culture - memorials, plaques and monuments to national heroes have been destroyed, along with Polish flags and all signs written in Polish. The Germanization of place names prevails.

It’s a war on culture, as well as a war on the country, and it’s been fighting for a long time here. Goebbels once declared that “The Polish nation is not worthy to be called a cultured nation.”

That war comprises of everything; including education; it’s long been a Nazi goal to eradicate the Polish intellectual elite. All schools beyond elementary level are shut, and are tightly controlled. Many university professors, teachers, lawyers, artists, writers, priests and other members of the Polish intelligentsia have been arrested and executed, or transported to concentration camps with the Jews. Steve remembers reading about the massacre of the the Lwow professors in 1941, he remembers how angry it made him, and how angry he was that no one was doing anything about it yet. It was one of the first crimes reported. Steve has followed the path of the Occupation for long before America joined the war, and he has had many discussions on politics, both domestic and foreign with his Professor in Colour Theory, whose lineage came from the very place he is in now. 

It’s multi-generational indoctrination, is what it is - it’s _brainwashing_ in it’s finest form. The Soviets did the same, or at least planned to in print and propaganda during their occupation before they lost the region to the Nazis.

It’s illegal, under pain of death, to own a radio here. It’s illegal to speak Polish, especially in public. Newspapers are difficult to find; and empty of anything that isn’t propaganda. The only cinemas that are open are those that show films that highlight the achievements of the Third Reich. The Polish people are only ever addressed by megaphone by German officials.

Everything is underground here.

There’s schools, newspapers, theatre performances, poetry readings, sport events, tournaments and art exhibitions all under the cover of night in cafes and restaurants; the whole nine yards. Artists, hidden away and dulling down their intellectualism work directly for the Underground State - making their own propaganda for the resistance printing presses, or forging money and documents. Steve would like to meet some of those artists if he could, and he especially wants to meet the people responsible for successfully displaying three giant twenty foot caricature puppets of Hitler and Mussolini in public places in Warsaw, _three times without getting caught._

Whoever they are, they are _heroes_ in Steve’s book.

It exists, invisible but not, under the radar and peaking through in slogans painted the walls and the quiet murmur of conversation in the back rooms of cafes. He spies "_Tylko świnie siedzą w kinie_" scrawled across a wall, warning people away from open activities that fund the Nazi war effort. It means “only pigs go to the movies.”

There’s a heavy Hydra presence here too - in the towns closer to the remote compound it’s _stiflingly_ obvious - and the more signs there are of Hydra occupation - the less signs there are of the Underground. Everyone hides in their homes; the streets are empty. The towns are also empty of German soldiers; and if there was ever any doubt that Schmidt has broken away from the Nazi Party; it’s no longer shrouded in mystery - it’s clear for the eye to see with the posters emblazoned with his face; the text beside it proclaiming; _“Hitler is weak. Schmidt is strong. Where does your loyalty lie?”_

. . .

It’s only been several weeks since they’ve been in London, but it seems strange to be over the line again; and it’s easy to loose track of the days. They blur together for the others in long days of re-coning, but Steve keeps track. _The day_ arrives, right before they rack up the next hit on their list. _The __Day_ has nothing to do with the assault - it's far more important infact.

Steve picks a whole score of oranges from an orchard he finds scouting, and gives Bucky three with a grin, a celebratory cake and candle carved into one of the skins.

“Happy Birthday.” He greets Bucky’s bemused expression. His face is covered in green and brown paint, ready for the day. His friend blinks, bewildered. He looks at the orange in his hand.

“Oh.” He replies, “I’d forgotten.”

“Good thing you’ve got me here to remind you then.” Steve replies, grinning.

“Yeah…” Bucky says, picking up one of the oranges from Steve's palm. “good thing.”

He starts turning the fruit around between his fingers, nails catching in the scores Steve's made into the skin. There's a faint smile on his lips; more amused than bemused now, but it's a smile._ Yes_.

“How does it feel to be old?”

“Better.” Bucky replies, after a stationary moment, “now that I’ve caught you up. Puts us on an even footing.”

“Uh-huh." Steve relays, unbelieving. "Eat up, and here, I also got you these.” He hands Bucky a clean pair of dry socks he’s been holding onto - “oh god, Steve,_ yes!_” and, torn from his sketchbook a drawing; graphite marks and shading stretching right to the edge of the page. There’s three heads in the sketch, two with matching ‘Bucky braids’ as they’ve been aptly dubbed many many years ago. The twins are wearing identical grins; and Becca, between them is midway through rolling her eyes. Bucky laughs now, blurting and surprised, when he see’s it. It’s the most familiar expression she wears for the both of them. “I figured you didn’t have any of them - and if you did, well--”

“They’d be gone.” Bucky mumbles, fingers tracing the marks but careful not to smudge them. It seems like he can’t take his eyes off it. “T-Thank you, Steve-o.”

“Of course.” He says as Bucky looks up. There’s a click to his right. He says again; “Happy birthday. Now blow out your candles.”

Bucky snorts, and pretends to blow out the candle on the carved orange. Fletcher’s Graflex camera reel clicks as he does.

“Stop recording Fletch.” Bucky cuts off his blow to say.

“This is good stuff!”

“He said stop recording.” Steve reiterates, wanting this moment to themselves. “Please.”

Fletcher clears his throat, “yeah okay.” The camera turns away, and he goes to film the rest of the crew as they finish up packing the explosives ready to go. Steve pulls Bucky the rest of the way to his feet, and squeezes his arm as he tucks the drawing and the socks away somewhere safe. He tucks all three oranges into his pockets to eat throughout the day while he’s waiting for the action to reach him and Hydra at the end of it. Steve helps him get the rest of the stuff packed up, as he’s carrying as lightly as possible; and then takes Bucky’s pack himself. He loads it in the back of the truck they are hiding under a pile of foliage.

“Alright everyone! File in.” Fletcher calls, and they come together in a line; stood armed and at attention. Fletcher flicks his camera to the still setting; he waves Morita in closer. Then, with a click and a flash@ their picture is taken. “Thanks guys.” Fletcher says; camera hung round his neck and ready in his own kit.

The boys all slap Dernier and Bucky on the shoulders. Dugan says; before Steve can. “Be careful today.”

“You too.” Bucky replies, and off he goes in his fatigues in one direction, Dernier on his heels; foliage cover netting on his back. Seventeen hours before go-time.

. . .

For an hour and forty three minutes they stay in their concealed position, dug in low in concealed foxholes. Light streams in through the small breaks in the branches covering the the hole above their heads - lighting up strips of their faces and the muddy walls. Their attached Ham Radio, set to a continuous output, spits out a low static-y hum. They have it switched onto CW mode, at a frequency between 20 kHz to the 30kH, and pitch volume at 800Hz so the tone sounds crisper when it comes out. Morita is sat next to it, headphones on for closer listening, and he adjusts the filter wider or narrower depending on if there’s any interference coming through. It’s very quiet as they wait.

They’re not attempting to listen in or break through secured channels here, if anyone’s likely to pick them up and figure it out, it’ll be Hydra. This compound is reportedly one of their chief communication compounds. This is their own random channel, chosen only this morning. Steve can feel the anxious adrenaline in his gut, getting ready for the fight. Fletcher’s camera clicks; an observational shot of Morita’s stark focus on the radio set.

The constant static transmission is interrupted. Then back, in out, out, long long long, gap, short, dot… Here’s what they’re waiting for.

‘.-.. --- -.-. -.-’

Morita notes down the letters, even though they're all listening. “That’s an lock.” He announces.

“Alpha lock, they’re in position. Charges are set. Okay, guys - from here on out radio silence.” Steve orders, and they all go dark.

. . .

The compound is laid out almost like a cross - like a swastika at a bird’s eyes view when you consider the extra garage blocks spiking out from each side. Steve’s not entirely sure if the design is deliberate or not. It’s cross-sectioned into five areas - barracks and living spaces, artillery stores, manufacturing, communication hubs and printing presses; and then the locked down Center Control Room. You need passes, codes and clearance to access each wing - unless you’re High (_high_)Command - so no one in the base has likely ever had access to the whole compound. The scientist recovered in Belgium told them all of this, the one that was shaking in fear of his colleagues when they left him. He’d only ever been to the barracks and the manufacturing block.

. . .

It goes down like this:

Steve checks his watch, gaze on the ticking second hand - thumb on a detonator as the wire trails along the leafy ground into the distance - right up to and along the road. The hand hits a new hour - and two minutes later the heavy artillery on the North West side goes up in a huge explosion - and the next thing Steve knows Dernier’s driving the armoured truck he’s been clinging to the bottom of all night through the gates - obviously responsible and_ very distracting_. He’s wearing red and blue - and Steve’s helmet. Hydra chase after him with gusto with half of their entire force. _Bingo._ Right after Dernier passes; Steve throws tyre spikes onto the road. Then, for good measure as they crash or jerk to stop - he triggers and blows up the road, trucks and gravel spearing into the sky. He leaps over the wreckage and runs to join Jones, Dugan and Fletcher on the Eastern Assault. Dernier turns his truck in a circle, parks in the dead centre of the road and arms himself on the augmented MG42 attached to the back, swivelling it and locking into place to cover the main road.

Falsworth and Morita - and a long line of rigged explosives cover the south side. Steve propels himself forwards, using his arm to swing his way round a tree trunk. Following the heavy gunfire and explosions - he joins the boys; third in a row - running at the fence, grenades and explosions all around as Jones fires his Browning at a run, and Dugan his Winchester.

_Whoever sheds man’s blood, by man his blood shall be shed, for in the image of God. He made man._

Fletcher runs alongside them - camera rolling action footage in one hand and his own gun in the other - firing ahead as he runs - dirt flying everywhere.

Steve takes the heaviest blasts when they see him - but he has the shield - and he bats each one away gracefully; and when he can’t he merely covers himself behind it as flames lick just around the edges. Before they know it he’s throwing his own grenades, and he’s leaping the fence and opening up a way in for the others. He takes point on the tanks, the small planes, and machine guns ricocheting bullets at everyone.

With every assault he learns, with every assault he gains experience and new manoeuvres of his body; with every assault he gets_ better._

Soon enough he’s inside - bashing his way through secured doors and clearing the way for Jones to the Central Command room - where he leaves him with a captured officer to give him access to the self destruct. On every corner and structural beam he passes he sticks the gum-like explosives to the stone and wood - the others do the same with charges on the out buildings - but he's the_ fastest._ The barracks and the manufacturing blocks go up as they trigger. He grabs intel as he goes; he does it for the darling Peggy Carter, who kissed him three more times in London, and who_ he_ kissed_ four_ more times in London. Eventually men start running away from him instead of at him. They all seem to be retreating downstairs - towards the South East wall - _the elusive exit perhaps?_

He expects Bucky’s more than racking them up by now.

He keeps going, and if men fight him instead of automatically surrendering to him - then they fight to their end - and Steve takes their passes and code-books; enters the next block - setting more flammable gum. He returns to Central Command to cover Jones’ exit out as Hydra’s charges begin igniting the commandos own.

“Four minutes, forty!” Jones announces, coming out alone and leaving the officer tied to the bolted down chair, spitting at him; and Steve fires the red flare out the window into the sky.

It’s their signal for ‘_job done - lets get the hell out_’ and before Hydra even realizes -they’ve left the compound and have disappeared back into the Polish forest. When he looks at his watch the total assault has taken thirty-nine minutes.

The compound explodes into a dark plume of smoke - nothing but burning rubble and rebar - just like the base in Austria. It’s almost nostalgic.

. . .

Steve’s checking his watch, and then the direction on his compass, and then his watch again. He sighs, running a hand over his jaw. They’re back in or just out of their foxholes.

“He’s late.” He announces.

“That’s just what I was thinking myself.” Dugan says.

“Alright lads,” Falsworth says, “Why don’t we just give him a bit more time.”

“He’s_ late_.” Steve repeats, “he should have made the rendezvous by now.”

“And Dernier was late too, here; and so was Morita on the last hit.” Falsworth reminds them.

“To be fair,” Morita notes from the side, sucking on his cheek by the radio. “--We weren’t this late. He should’ve been here ten minutes ago, at the _very_ latest. There’s only so much more time we can give him before we need to get out. Or secure the whole area for our own…”

“Which we can’t do,” Jones notes, “because there’s _seven _of us.”

“Well, there should be eight.” Steve grumbles under his breath. “Where the hell is he?” He sighs, then double checks; “Are we getting anything on the radios?”

“Apart from Hydra trying to re-establish contact with the compound, no. And that went dark twenty--” Morita checks his watch, one ear free of the thick headphones, “six minutes ago. I think it’s fair to say they know the base is toast by now.”

“No notes, coded or otherwise about a capture?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck. Okay.”

“That’s a good thing last I checked?” Fletcher notes as Dernier ties off a bandage on his upper-arm. He’s also sporting some nasty bark burns on the face where an explosion of dirt caught him in a unlucky blast. It didn’t stop him though, or his shot, he powered through like a trooper. Steve’s got to give him some well-earned respect for that.

“Yes and no.” Dugan explains, "If we knew he’d been captured you can sure as shit be sure we’d try and go get him before he disappears into the dusk. But as of now - we got nothing. He could be wounded, dead or taking his fucking time at this rate. We don’t know.”

“Barnes knows what he’s doing, we gotta trust that. Keep your ears open, Cap. You’ll hear anything before we will - how about we give him another fifteen?” Gabe offers.

“I’ll give nine.” Steve says to Dugan’s forced-optimistic snort, “then I’m hitting the track to find him.”

“We’ll need to hit the road pretty soon after that,” Falsworth informs them, whose taken point on the map. “We won’t have the time to wait around for you get back. The time-stamp for the safe-house is 19:45, if we miss it we’re out for the night in accommodation and comms.” And if they miss the communication time-stamp at 20:00 in the safe-house then the SSR consensus will be that the mission is deemed a failure and they’ll send in a cavalry of bombs and attempt to obliterate the whole area (including civilian targets to ensure total destruction) while the rest of the undercover agents go to ground. This base was a big one - and they won’t be taking any chances that someone is going to be exposed. That’s not something that Steve wants, especially seeing as they don’t need to. Their team didn’t leave much at all apart from rubble and smoldering flames.

The plan _was_ for Bucky to hold his position for two hours after their exit to ensure all the ‘cockroaches’ are scattered, and to ensure there’s no last minute ambush and assemblage as a precaution - then he was to return to them. It’s standard practice - they’ve done it before - but Bucky’s never been late before - so why is he now?

“Nine minutes.” He decides, “then I go and you guys hit the road on fifteen. Make the time-stamp, and report in. _When_,” he emphasizes, “I find him, we’ll catch you up.”

“You want anyone else with you, as cover?” Dugan says, who Steve can see is itching to go too. A whole bunch of them are, but they know the protocol - and they can’t all blow the shit and do what they want. Steve thinks about not isolating himself the way he promised Bucky, ; _‘we’re a unit, not a one-man army’_ but for once that statement won’t help. And honestly, as one of his thirds he’d prefer Dugan to be one of the ones to report in.

“No. No offense, Dum Dum - but I’ll move quicker without you. You take point, get everyone where they need to be.”

He observes him for a moment, “and you’ll catch us up?” Steve nods, “alright, in that case -” He slings his own sidearm round and gives it to Steve as an second firearm, and Monty loads him up with extra ammo for both him and Bucky; plus a carry on pack with just enough rations for two people for two days as a precaution. How long it’ll take for them to catch up depends on if they can steal their own transport, or depends on the how many pieces they’ll be in when they’re done.

Dernier checks his watch, and notes: “eight minutes, Capitaine.”

“Eight minutes.” He repeats, noting it down himself.

Steve hands are scrunching in and out of each other at four minutes, kneading his palms between his knees, adrenaline high and just - he wants to _go_. The others are sat or patrolling in the same tense silence; truck loaded and ready with just enough petrol to get them a mile or so out from the safe-house where they’ll abandon it. Morita cocks his head, frowning - and then suddenly flips his notebook over and starts writing something; stops and starts. Steve doesn’t notice until Fletcher cuts in:

“Jim, what is it?”

Steve’s head snaps up. “Morita?”

He glances up quickly, frowning. He quickly bites out so he can focus: “I kept flicking back to our Ham frequency on the off chance--”

“And your getting something? What? Hydra?”

“I don’t know. Morse. Now will you shut up, I’m trying to listen.”

_Morse_; he’s got morse code coming through; Steve shoves himself up to read the words he’s translating in block letters and numbers.

‘.... / .- .--. .--. .-. --- .- -.-. .... / -.-. --- -- .. -. --. / .-- .... . .-. . / ..-’

“H APPRO. COMING. WHERE U - then a question mark.” Morita announces to them as it finishes, though Steve’s already back on his feet and moving before the question mark comes in.

It’s three minutes, but as far as Steve’s concerned the clock has timed out. H APPROACH means Hydra reinforcements - it’s likely Bucky may have been ambushed.

“Whoa hang on--”

“We don’t know that’s him.” Morita warns, “it’s asking for our location - which he knows. It could be a trap if they’ve worked out the frequency we used--”

“Don’t give a location. I’ll go instead.”

“It could be a trap--”

“Then I’ll keep my guard up--”

“Cap--”

“Go. We got this.” Falsworth interrupts the alternative, so that’s exactly what Steve does. He pegs it off back the way they’ve just come; but this time veers right at a turning point instead of left; and starts scaling an slippery uphill climb of long grass and mud - the same way Bucky left eighteen hours ago. The trees flit past him the same way flies flit past him standing, or the way the clouds whip from his vision as he falls through them; long before he pulls open his parachute.

He checks his compass, ducking under a low branch; and alters his course slightly, then keeps going. He goes for several more minutes, his legs pounding out nearly a mile every minute and ten. Suddenly his Short-Wave action radio on his shoulder crackles to life - he still had it turned on from the initial assault.

“_Eagle Nest to Eagle One, come in._” [STATIC]

Steve ignores it - they shouldn’t be operating on these - they’re only for short-range in the middle of an assault. They’re unsecured.

“_Dis-_-[STATIC]” it begins to cut out as Steve gets further away. “-_-patach to Eagle One_.”

He fires out a response with his thumb, holding it down for five seconds to send a vague output through.

“_Cap, we got you_?” Comes out over it next - Jesus Christ,_ what?_

“You got me--” he snaps, annoyed they’re not listening to his orders now of all times. “I said go dark. Over.”

“_You’ll be glad we went light._” That’s Dugan. “_New morse through-_-”

“What?!” Steve snaps out, still running and inadvertently interrupting them. The longer they’re on these unsecured short waves the more dangerous is it.

“_One word - __Schmidt._ ” Steve’s whole body reacts in a jolt mid-run, so much so he misses the ‘_Over’._

“He’s been spotted? Over.” He questions quickly - is the Red Skull here? He wasn’t in the initial assault. Oh lord, has he turned up at the rubble? Was he always due to turn up? His location’s been as obscure as storm clouds - there’s been no notice of him for months.

“_Eagle, I think our Sweet Stuff has gone back for the target. Over._”

“Shit!” Steve swears, half into and out of the radio. “Go dark.” He orders. “Repeat, go dark. Message received - stick to the plan! Over.”

He ups his speed, and drops unexpectedly as the ground pitches downward in a verge where a tree’s been pulled up. As he catches his feet with one hand, he turns to see the hill he’s just fallen down. There’s boot imprints scaling up it; and then back down in a rush. At the bottom there’s a collection of bodies, three; one with a bullet wound, the rest with knife wounds to the chest and neck. Bucky.

When Steve clambers back to higher ground on the other side, more with a single leap than a climb - he turns his head to the left - through the trees he can see the burning rubble, bright and orange with the drop of evening darkness - and in the distance a vehicle. A black _coupe_; the headlights lit, parked just beyond the boundary of the rubble.

Reports say the Red Skull’s personal vehicle is a four light-headed _Coupe_, expensive and personalized; the tentacled Hydra insignia on pride of place as a hood emblem.

_He’s here._

It’s reportedly what Zola escaped in in Austria, while the Skull took off in his own private rocket plane.

_He’s here._

That must have been what Bucky saw to turn him round.

_He’s here._

Steve can’t be far behind him now then. He follows the path of broken branches, snapped in the rush Bucky must be in to get back._ Where’s he going? Think Steve, he’ll be using his rifle - where would he position himself?_

Not where he was before; as when Steve looks at where it was now the walls of the compound aren’t obscuring it from vision he can see where it’s caught a huge blast from somewhere down the escape-valley, when did that happen? - and it’d be too far to shoot surely too.

The sound of a bullet spears the silence of Steve’s breathing, and then another. He’s learnt the sound of a Springfield off by heart by now; and now he can hear the click and drop as the rifle chambers another bullet; reloading. When he spies through the trees to the left a third fires out - there’s a figure; firelight glancing off skin that isn’t peach or cream or brown or black - but red.

The figure _dodges_ the bullet, and then the next. There’s a hiss of a swear from upfront. Steve changes direction, now running down towards the rubble instead of alongside it through the forest. Another two bullets chamber and reload - the Red Skull’s face is contorted with the smear of anger for the destroyed compound, but, he’s also….there’s the smear of a smirk. There’s two cargo trucks behind his ridiculously polished show-off of a car, so he hasn’t come alone. Steve will take him - Bucky can take the anyone else who tries to shove their way in and engage - he’s almost at the line - ready to leap the thirteen foot drop into the area of action.

The Skull opens his arms wide, as if inviting Bucky to shoot him; arrogant and invincible. He dodges a fourth - _again_ \- and Bucky’s getting angry now - Steve can tell - the expulsions of the bullets sound sharper; more impatient - he’s snapping at the trigger with more force than his usual focused_ push._ The Skull’s face snarls into a grin - and he looks exactly to where the muzzle flashes are coming from in the darkening evening. There’s a familiar _swwwiiiissshhh_ hum - the truck behind him - locked on - the flaunt of power is a distraction. Steve, without thinking - his heart commanding him instead of his head - _Red Skull’s the biggest threat, he’s the target, the priority_ \- turns round.

He pelts it North instead of East.

He tackles Bucky’s body at a run, bent slow to swing an arm under his belly from where he’s laid down on his perch. His fingers lock into his jacket, clenching, and Steve throws them both in a jumping roll - spicing off the ground and down a verge.

He yells out a curse as heat singes down his forearm - blue-white-black flashing past his vision - but he has him, his friend is covered. They hit the ground hard; Steve ensures he takes the brunt of it; and they both grunt and cry out from the force. His knee bursts in hot almost white pain, worse than his ankle under the building. They roll down the hill - Bucky’s Springfield discharges - strap tangled around one arm - the Hydra blast tears through the trunks of three trees and the entire small cliff face. The trees drop; cut off in the middle, slamming into the ground upright and tipping over. The ground rumbles as shards of stone explode into the sky, and as a landslide; they smash and smother the fires the commandos left behind below. Steve witnesses all of it in short sharp glimpses as they roll, and then Steve ensures they keep rolling to get completely out of the second blast zone. One shot by a large Hydra defence gun has done as much damage as four American tanks did in the Italian assault.

Their rolling path down the hill finishes as Steve’s back slams into a tree; and he cries out; but Bucky’s struggling.

“It’s me, it’s Steve. Friendly, I’m a friendly.” He bites out quickly before Bucky yanks out one of his knives and stabs him on instinct. He would too if someone just grabbed and flipped him into a tree with no warning to be fair.

“Ste--” Bucky realizes. “Schmidt!” He then starts but Steve’s already trying to get to his feet and snapping “Stay!” at him. He gains one foot - and with the other - one step in goes down. His right knee explodes in pain, he can’t get up. _Fuck, he’s dislocated it, hasn’t he? Guess he’s going to have to hop down and fight Schmidt on one foot._

“Don’t be an idiot!” Bucky snaps like he can read his mind, maybe able to see how out of socket it is, and he scrambles to his feet again; Steve grabs him back - eyes wide - then Bucky’s too - and they both duck down further as Hydra fires out a second round of back-up shots to ensure the sniper is obliterated. It would certainly be over-kill if Steve wasn’t there; which they don’t know, but Hydra have always been insufferable showboats.

“Down down down.” Steve snaps, covering him; rolling them further and getting them back behind a tree and a rock. Dirt explodes and rains down, but Steve’s rolled them far enough away out of the eye of the storm. “Stay down.” He repeats, head tucked into the back of Bucky’s shoulder; his friend’s knee jabbing into his stomach. His arm _burns_. Engines start up in the silence following the vague ringing in their ears - Hydra; leaving.

Bucky tries to move, freeing himself. “They’re getting away"

“I said stay down!” Steve snaps, “you fired six bullets at him and he dodged each one - and I can’t run. We can’t stop them - _you’re going to get yourself killed_.”

“We can’t just”

“You can’t hit him, Buck.” Steve repeats, still one hand clenched into his jacket. _And I can’t get him like this. It’s too late._ “Stay low!” He orders again, then drags Bucky back down to his knees. He waits a moment more to ensure he’s is slowing, and calming, from the drama. “But nice try. Next time though; maybe do it when he doesn’t have a high-velocity cannon waiting at his back.” He aims out afterwards to lighten the layer of wired agitation hovering over the pair of them. That was a close one.

_Live and let live, _he reminds himself, _you can’t win every one. Even though that was the **Red Skull** \- dammit, what a chance they’ve screwed there-- no. You have to let some things go - don’t linger on the failures, don’t linger on the unfortunates._

_Maybe linger on the fact that both you tossers are still alive, _he tells himself.

“Or don’t do it at all, is what that means.” Bucky grumbles, but gets to his feet. “I didn’t know they had that.” He admits, which is fair - it was hiding in the darkness of the covered truck bed. Then he assures: “I’m just checking” when Steve opens his mouth to reprimand him again, and limps his way up the soil verge - spying over the top. Steve hears him sigh, and he lets go and simply allows himself to slide down the hill, then inches his way back over on his knees. “They’re gone. Not much chance now.”

“It was one hell of a good run.” Steve tries to commiserate, gingerly stretching out his leg with a tense mouth and frown. He observes him quickly as Bucky comes close - “Are you alright?”

“You rolled me remember? And smashed yourself against a tree for good measure so I wouldn’t. Who are you, Flash Gordon?”

“I’m better, I’m Captain America.” He retorts before he can help himself. Then adds, “Well yes, but -- still. You were limping just then. The ambush too - I saw the bodies. Did any of them get you?” There’s blood in a smear on his thigh, and the trousers are torn. Bucky sees his eyes on it - “they slashed me with a knife - but I gave as good as I got.”

“I saw.”

“It’s nothing. What about you?” He questions, fingers on his swollen, and yes, obviously out of place socket, gingerly poking at it, head cocked - “apart from,” he nods at Steve’s knee.

“Think I’m good.” Steve says. He moves his arm-- “Ow, okay. Or not.”

“Let me see?” Bucky requests, shaking his wrist out and taking Steve’s gingerly. He grimaces, and _yeah okay,_ Steve has to admit;_ it does not look good. _“If that doesn’t scar,” he says, “then you really are a miracle.”

Steve grunts, “here’s hoping. There’s--” he waves behind him at his pack, just says: “med kit. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

“’Kay,” Bucky says, rolling to his feet again, but staying bent at the waist as he retrieves it, favouring one leg just as Steve’s likely going to have to do. “Keep it out of the dirt.”

Steve does as he’s told. Bucky does not when Steve tells him not to waste the morphine - he jabs it into Steve’s bicep with a flat unimpressed look on his face. “Stop being a martyr, you tool.”

“I’ll just wear off so--”

“Don’t care.” Bucky mutters, haphazardly plopping a mound of cream his forearm, and then Steve wraps it with his other hand and teeth at speed._ Ahh, that’s better; cooling._ Bucky eyes it, “I’ll do it better when we're more secure. It’s not safe here. Am I gonna have to cut this or can you roll it?” 

“Don’t cut it - It should roll up but,” he grunts,” - you might have to do it.” Bucky nods, and undoes his boot to get access and to untuck the bottom of his trousers. His hands are gentle, careful - but easy. His face is covered in paint still; green and brown smears across his cheeks, forehead and chin; clogged into his eyebrows. The paint disguises the dark circles under his eyes, that once again linger with near twenty four hours of wakefulness and scope-focused attention. He’s lost his beanie hat - and the netting he left with - in fact, where’s the whole pack with the spare Ham radio? His hair is tangled like a birds nest, leaves and twigs caught up in the strands from the roll - Steve’s probably a matching set. “What the hell happened, Buck?”

“Everything was fine, clear.” He explains, “For hours. Then someone - another sniper fired off a shot from somewhere in that river bend. If I hadn’t flinched it would have got me in the solar plexus - so I buckled down into cover, trying to target it myself. I knew if I moved even an inch too far he’d get me.”

“That’s what made you late.” Steve realizes. “You got stuck. Sniper vs. Sniper.”

“You lot were long gone by then, so I knew you wouldn’t have heard the shot. I was on my own. I’d just worked out where he was when a truck came hurtling down the escape road - guy with a canon on his back - I shot him - but the fucker pulled the trigger when he went down - so I blew the joint before it could hit. Didn’t get hit by either luckily. Somehow. I’ve got _no idea_ how the hell I got out home-free.”

The blown up perch Steve saw, he understands now. “And the sniper?”

“I don’t know -” so the guy is probably still around somewhere - but Bucky managed to get rather far from the perch. They might be okay - but it’s still not a good idea to hang round. Even more reason to get Steve on his feet as quick as they can. “I just started moving - but I’d gotten all turned round with the blast - I had my radio but couldn’t-- it’s stupid but I couldn’t remember what the coordinates or even the direction where the rendezvous was. It just - poof.” He says, motioning with hand against his head, an explosion of a poof cloud. “Gone. I don’t know--It was so stupid.”

_The not sleeping, _Steve thinks, closing his eyes.

“That’s why you asked us where we were. You didn’t know the location or what the time was.”

“I knew it was risky, but -- I did it anyway. Sorry - I was panicking - I thought I was being followed.” Bucky admits, bunched up fabric now just below his knee. “Get ready,” he warns.

“No, its - it’s fine.” Steve returns, to the admittance and the action, and allows the pain to vibrate through him without calling out as Bucky rolls up and over. All he does is scrunch his hands into the leaves below him. The conversation is a good distraction. Even with the confusion and the risk of a trap Steve was certainly more reassured with the morse message than without it - it also gave him an excuse to say screw it and go early. “And the ambush?”

“Not much to say - they came at me, I killed them - sent the message over the radio - climbed up - then saw the car. Sent the other when I was running back to get real eyes on him. You did get the second one I take it? You knew what you were walking into, right? Or did you get none of them and just went do-ally when I was late?”

“We got the first. The boys raised me on the radio,” he motions to it on his shoulder as Bucky lays his hands on his knee, skin on skin. It’s been a while since they’ve touched skin on skin. “for the record: I was planning on coming without it, either-way.” He says to Bucky’s snort. “So I knew Schmidt was there - I was at the treeline gonna’ go for him when I heard the gun warming up.”

“You should have gone for him.” Bucky admonishes.

“And leave you to get incinerated? Not a chance in hell, pal.” He retorts right back, “I’d make the same decision a hundred times over - seven hundred times over.”

“But not eight hundred?” Bucky asks, teasing, flicking his eyes up under his eyebrows.

“If you were being nice that day, then maybe.”

Bucky huffs, the pauses, licking his lip. “Thanks. By the way. So I don’t sound ungrateful - thank you for the save.”

“You’re welcome. “ Steve returns kindly. “Now can you fix my knee so I can walk?”

Bucky nods, fingers hovering again. “I’ve never done this before.” He warns.

“Well don’t screw it up the first time then.”

“That’s so helpful, thanks so much, Steve.” Bucky retorts sarcastically, and throws a stick at Steve’s chest. He vaguely catches it. “Bite down.” Steve cracks the bark on it as he does just that, determined not to yell out or scream - there’s the sniper - and maybe even that driver in the dried river-bend who could still be around. Steve closes his eyes: ready. “On three. One, two, three--” It doesn’t come. Steve opens his eyes -”four, five--”

He slurs around the twig, accusing. “You said three--_arghh!_”

He slams his head back into the tree at the sharp crack - the pain flares awful and nasty, then fades. He spits the twig out, gasping rather more heavily than he was planning to. “You said_ three_. I was ready on three.”

“Which was why I didn’t do it on three. Or two. It distracted you, didn’t it?”

“By me being annoyed at you - yes.” Steve accuses, but then has to chuckle. He sighs, “god, that feels better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. A lot. I think maybe I can stand--”

“No let me splint it at least.” Steve nods, and allows him to do what he will; and then grasps his arm as Bucky pulls him to his feet and tries not to loose his own balance in the process. Looks like they’ll both be limping. “What a pair we make, huh?”

“Hilarious.” Steve mumbles as Bucky hops to pick his Springfield - checks to make sure it’s not damaged - then makes sure he’s still got his sidearm. It’s still in this thigh holster, and Steve checks his for good measure, and the small backpack of rations strapped to the small of his back under his shield.

“Think the radio is toast.” Bucky informs, pointing vaguely to where there’s still a landslide falling - and also where his pack and Ham radio is yes, likely toast. Or burned into non-existence. They’ll have to go round it. “So we can’t get the others on and--”

“Wouldn’t be able to anyway.” Steve interrupts, testing his weight and then limping to follow him - “orders are to go dark. They’ve gone to the safe-house to report in,” Bucky nods, “we’re on our own. At least until tomorrow, probably two to three days to catch them up.”

Bucky huffs and slings his shoulder under Steve’s armpit to take some of his weight. “On our own is our speciality.”

Steve laughs quietly, they’ve survived fourteen years on their own - they can surely survive a couple of new days. “Yeah I guess it is.”

_. . ._

_Vrrroosssshhheeeeee! --- bricks fall. Steve slams his shield up above his head as the stone heavens above him rain down - crashing and thudding against the vibranium. It vibrates though the metal, even though nothing should vibrate - it’s supposed to absorb everything, what? -- shaking his arms and muscles with the pressure as he cringes._

_Oh god, oh god---_

_Something huge slams into it and he goes down as it cracks against the shield - splitting the slab in two. When he wakes it’s all dark, and dusty, and just like before. Breath shuddering in his chest he crawls to his knees, coughing; the dust catches deep in his chest the way it didn’t before - it feels weird - but familiar…? He can’t see - and he scrabbles to try and find the shield, catching his fingernails on the rubble and tearing them._

_“Ow!” He yelps; not expecting it. He can’t find the shield but - ah, a box of matches and a dry shard of wood. He strikes a match, still coughing; pushing against his Adam’s Apple, tapping as he always used to to clear it. Orange light illuminates in the darkness, his breaths hacking and harsh, “please please please” he prays, as yes! The wood catches - illuminating more._

_He hacks again, unable to clear the dust - tap, push, tap - the way ma taught you, come---_

_He freezes - staring at the hand holding the lit torch. The fingers are thin, spindly; forefinger crooked from an old break - and - and small. He can see the bones and veins of his wrist under his skin._

_He already knows before he searches the rest of his body frantically, running his hands - up down, up down. He’s shorter. His arms are twig-like, sinewy-----_

_No no no no no he can already feel the fear. No, This can’t be happening. This can’t be - the serum - where’s the serum no--_

_He can’t breathe; his asthma, his bad heart - the scoliosis makes his back ache - it’s all back it’s all back- no no no - he can’t - he’s supposed to be healthy._

_He’s supposed to be healthy._

_WHERE IS THE SERUM? _ <strike> </strike>

<strike></strike>“Steve!” Someone hisses, and he grabs the wrist shaking his bicep - yanks it sharply. Another unseen hand grabs that wrist - then pinches_ his _armpit sharply. Steve holds in a yelp, suddenly awake. His breaths are loud - the air cool and cold; he can breathe. There’s leaves and stars above him - not stone or brick.

“Steve.” Someone hisses again, and he turns from his side on his back; blinks at his best friend - sat up with his hands tangled with Steve’s. His chest heaves, but Bucky looks calm; shallow light just catching on the side of his face in a strip through the foliage roof; and so Steve becomes calm compulsively; a matching set. “Easy man. You awake?”

“Ye-yeah.” He whispers back - freeing his arms, running them down his body. Muscles; body taking up too much space, he touches his cheeks - not hollow. Looks at his long fingers, but big hands. Bucky, after releasing them, rubs and massages the wrist Steve had grabbed - rolling it, grimacing slightly. Steve’s stomach sinks further - “Sorry - did I just--”

“It’s fine.” Bucky whispers, “what’s a few bruises between friends?”

“_Shit_,” Steve hisses, breath still loud to him if not to the rest of the world. “I’m sor--”

“I said it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Bucky interrupts in the dark. “Not like you pointed a gun at me.”

“That’s _not_ funny.” Steve whispers impulsively. His friend shrugs.

Steve’s hip and side are warm; lying flush against the side of Bucky’s body where his friend sits in the foxhole for second watch, hand on his thigh holster, while Steve sleeps his shift. He breathes out shakily, still tense - runs one hand over his chest and stomach again. With his other he rubs and knocks on his Adam’s Apple - Bucky frowns as he see’s the motion; even if it’s too dark and only a glimmer can be seen - he can likely tell. It’s what Steve used to do when he was having an asthma attack - his go-to motion.

“You okay there, pal?” He asks, voice low, “You tensed up beside me--”

Steve closes his eyes, breathes once. “Yeah. Yeah, I just - bad dream. I thought…I thought for a second…”

“For a second what?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head even if Bucky likely can’t see it. “Never mind.”

“Okay then.” His friend accepts easily after a moment, shrugging once more. He turns back to the opposite wall of the natural coffin-like foxhole they slipped into when it went dark - eyes just over the edge where the roof starts. “It’s still hours until dawn - if you wanna go back to sleep.”

Steve doesn’t think he can, if he’s honest. Then it hits him. He purses his lips - as he realizes he just waved Bucky off the exact why Bucky waves Steve off, and was about to do so again. It’s exactly the now-almost tradition he wants to shake off from his friend, not mirror. His ma always used to tell him to lead by example.

“Don’t think I can.” He admits, “I’ll stay up, if you want to switch again.”

“It’s my shift.”

“I know. I’m just saying - you’ve had to be on the ball for longer than I did over the last day or so. You must be tired.” Bucky shrugs in the dark as a response, Steve feels it more than sees it. “Fine,” he decides, “well an extra set of eyes and ears can’t hurt.” He tensely shifts himself up so he’s sitting slumped against the dirt wall. “Anything?”

“Engine going past somewhere - that direction.” He points to their feet “--don’t know what kind. Apart from that, no. Not really.”

Steve nods, “I heard about three on mine. Probably a patrol.”

“Probably.” Bucky adds. After a while he asks; “Reckon the boys made it back alright?”

Steve nods to himself, “For sure. They know what they’re doing; were early for the reporting knowing them; Efficient tossers. They’re probably snoring right now.”

Bucky hums. They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder until Bucky shifts to get comfier. His shoulder ends up resting over Steve’s, and his knee straightens so they really are laid flush in two straight lines.

“You’re very tense.” He comments.

Steve forcibly relaxes his shoulders. “It’s been a tense day.” He allows.

Bucky huffs, “and here I was thinking you were having fun jumping fences and firing out flares.”

“I wouldn’t say fun - more…hyped up.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky hums, in a way that says he doesn’t believe him. “Whatever you say, you insufferable showoff.”

Steve elbows him, murmurs; “I’m not a show-off.”

“Pretty sure that flip off the tank was meant deliberately for me. That spinning somersault off the wing of that private plane doesn’t bear mentioning.”

“That was for Fletcher actually--”

“--Oh _was it?_\--”

“--and that flip you saw when? When you were supposed to be focused on the Hydra getaway on the other side of the compound, you mean?” He asks lightly. “You need to keep your eyes off my American ass, is what you need to do, my friend.” Steve adds when Bucky grunts in acquiescence.

“Maybe when that reckless ass turns into a responsible ass, I will do.”

“Then this ass would have nowhere near as much fun.”

“I thought you weren’t having fun.” Bucky baits in a whisper, and Steve huffs, knowing he’s been caught out there. He leans his head back into the dirt, wiggles his toes in his now size ten boots._ Size ten_, he reminds himself, _not size barely-there-seven; which was a lie he used to tell himself when really he was a size six._

“My dream…” He starts, then falters.

The slight light on Bucky’s face shifts as he glances at him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, no. I do. Being honest and all.” He rubs at his armpit, a sudden spot sore--”did you pinch me?”

Bucky side-eyes him. “Yes.” He admits. “I was trying to wake you--that doesn’t mean you can or should do it to me. I’d punch you before I’d grab you.”

“At least your punches won’t break a bone.” Steve murmurs, and picks up Bucky’s free wrist lying curled over his stomach whether he likes it or not. He turns it over; observing; grimacing at the already darkening thumb and finger prints he can see marking the skin. _Shit._

Bucky scrunches his own fingers in, a faint disgruntled sound coming from deep in his throat before he shakes off Steve’s grip when he thumbs at what must have been where the joint and nail of his index finger dug in.

_Shit,_ Steve thinks again, _I need to watch myself. I hurt him._

“Try it and we’ll see about that.” Bucky grumbles, continuing on. Steve can’t bring himself to carry the rest of the conversation on further.

_I hurt Bucky. God._

An owl hoots somewhere. Silence holds.

Steve starts again.

“I was dreaming that….I dreamt that I was stuck under a building - stone everywhere. Like in Germany.” Steve admits. “I think it freaked me out more than I let on…” he allows, “being trapped like that and then - and then the serum was gone.”

“What?”

“The serum. The body.” He explains, “I was back in my old one - and - I noticed the asthma first. Then my back started aching like it used to. Then my heart was pumping so hard I thought it was going to burst outta’ my chest - you know - the way it couldn’t handle it before. When I got light working I - I saw the rest of me. It was back, all of it; and I was useless. Sick. Gonna’ die…my shield was gone.” He finishes with at last.

Bucky’s quiet for a long while as he takes that in, long enough that Steve can add on, realizing now - “It’s not the first one I’ve had about it - and I’ve had others…about….about those kids.” Bucky turns his head away in the darkness beside him, Steve hears him gulp. “Just - vague flashes of the battle. But the stone coming down, well there’s been a couple. I think that was first nightmare I’ve had since coming out here though.”

His voice, when it comes out, is one of surprise. _It’s very unfair in retrospect_, he thinks,_ when you compare his couple to Bucky’s innumerable._

His friend clears his throat, the sound low and still whisper-like. “Just cause you were small didn’t mean you were useless,” he answers eventually. “Being small didn’t stop you from fighting for Edith Pratt’s allowance money back when it got taken. Or wading in to save my ass the day after we met. Or stopped you from doing a lot of things you probably shouldn’t have been doing. So you weren’t useless - but I get why that would freak you out.” He pats Steve on the leg. “Serum’s still here. You still weigh a ton, you’re as healthy as a super-powered horse. Your heart is great, amazing even - so you’re fine. And I won’t let any more buildings fall on you - so don’t worry about that either.”

Steve huffs quietly, a small smile on his face. “You gonna’ stop a whole building, huh? How’d you plan to do that?”

“I’d catch it mid-air - hold it up with my big burly muscles.”

Steve smirks and pinches him in the upper arm. “What, you mean these non-existent things?”

Bucky slants a look at him, then snorts at him after - just loud enough that Steve has to half-seriously shush him. He lays back into the wall again, the point of his shoulder bracketing Bucky’s feels warm, and fond; almost. Something occurs to him, “Wait, what do you mean me wading into a fight a day after meeting you?”

“You know your constant chit-chat is not very conductive for focusing for enemies on watch.”

“I’m serious.” Steve says, but quieter - and shares the load a little, opening his ears out to their extremities. “What are you on about - me wading in and _saving_ you?”

Bucky glances at him, the light catches on his eyebrow as he raises it at Steve. “What? You’re telling me you don’t remember? I thought your memory was supposed to be spick, span and polished down to the last shitting detail.”

“It is.” Steve says, “but that’s not how I remember it at all. I didn’t save you.”

“What the hell you on, man? How do you not remember slamming into Michael Callahan when his brother was up front and his friends had my arms trapped behind my back?”

Steve blinks at him. “That’s not how we met. Or how it went.”

“Urgh_, yes it is_.” Bucky counters decisively. “And that’s exactly how it went. We met the day before - I got sent off the playground for throwing a ball at his head. You were drawing a map; you let me join in to cheer me up out my mood. It was super nice; like - so nice it made my day. Then the next day you threw yourself at him like Flash Gordon for me - smacked him hard enough you ended up on the ground. Then started my first ever block fight.”

“One block fight of many,” Steve says, “but that’s not how we met; you saved me first. Months before; with Fred McAllister - but we didn’t actually talk then. Our map was the first time we talked.”

Bucky frowns at him. He looks a little perplexed. Perhaps that memory is not as clear cut to him as it is to Steve, or maybe he doesn’t remember it at all? Steve remembers it; how the brown-haired kid from the second row in class stepped in and charmed Fred away with a deliberate grin in order get him to clear him off, and Steve didn’t get his trousers pulled down that day. Fred probably didn’t see it for what it was, but Steve did. It wasn’t a kind of save from a hero of the Saturday matinee serial, but it was still very much a save.

_It’s okay he doesn’t remember it; _Steve has always known, because it wasn’t the only time Bucky had stepped in for someone in that way; but it was the first time someone had ever stepped in for _Steve_ before. Fighting isn’t the only way to help people.

Yet Bucky does remember… Steve continues: “and that time after that - you remember it as me saving you? Really?”

The thought is baffling.

“Yeah.” Bucky says, stressing: “’_cause that’s the way it happened. _I know my memory can be a bit funky now - but it wasn’t back then. I know what happened. What happened was you.”

Steve blinks solidly for a few moments at the light glancing of the leaves and twigs stuck in his friend’s hair and on his face; decides to explain how it was from his perspective. _It’s funny,_ he thinks,_ how two people can have two completely different memories of the same events_. It’s the same actions they are both describing, but so different in the reasonings; in the events and contexts leading up to it. Steve didn’t_ save _Bucky; in the sense that Bucky didn’t need to be saved.

“I was fed up of him getting on at me and everyone, and gettin’ away with it all the time - so I gave you a hand, but you would have had it covered on your own. You were a boxer.”

Bucky scoffs. “I think you’re thinking way too much of my skills as a ten-year old. That’s probably on me, I did brag a lot.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Steve tacks on, but doesn’t believe. His voice on the _maybe_ is doubtful when it comes out - it’s not disguised well--because: Bucky knew how to punch, how to dodge; and he knew himself in and out even as young as he was. Steve didn’t have that quality about him; never has - _hell, _he still doesn’t. Bucky would have been fine on his own. He tells him exactly that: “--but you had it handled. I certainly didn’t make much difference in the end; I barely made a dent.”

“Don’t be a tool.” Bucky says, shaking his head and leaning it further into the dirt; relaxing. “You made all the difference. And, for the record, I most definitely did_ not_ have it handled. I wasn’t _that_ good. I’d never even hit someone properly before.”

“What?” Steve flares out in surprise at this sudden, unknown, information. “You hadn’t? You said Goldie and your pa said you were great for your age--”

“For hitting a bag and the hand pads, sure, but I was _ten,_ Steve. They don’t let ten year olds into the fucking ring.”

“Oh…Right.” Steve says dumbly. Somehow he’d never considered that before. It makes sense though; and really, when you think about it, he now realizes - Steve has always seen Bucky as larger than life._ Maybe there’s things you didn’t see, like he didn’t with you? Things that past you by because you were so wrapped up in your own pre-determined bias; thinking so much of him?_

“Plus,” Bucky carries on. “You can’t box when you’ve got three guys holding you down, Steve; use your head.”

“There wasn’t that many--”

“There was.” Bucky disagrees, still in a whisper. “They had me surrounded. I didn’t want to get hit - and Arthur Callahan scared the jeebies out of me he was so big. I knew no one was gonna come and help me, and then you did. I didn’t care so much about getting hit when I realized you weren’t scared of gettin’ hit. So yeah pal, you struck him across the face like you’d struck gold; and I was officially in love.” There’s a grin on his face as he speaks, Steve can tell, the way it curls around the words; teasing.

Steve swallows and licks his lip, “That’s really how you remember it, me saving you.”

“Yes.” Bucky stresses, “because---”

“--That’s what happened.” Steve finishes his sentence, “right. I didn’t…” _I didn’t know that was such a big thing to you._ Steve, for all his fighting and binary perspective of the world, has never actually considered that he’d ever saved anyone, not really; not until the serum. Apparently he’d saved Bucky long before he realized it himself. It’s not the only thing he’s said tonight that Steve has never considered a…well, a big deal.

(‘_you let me join in to cheer me up out my mood. It was super nice, like - so nice it made my day. ‘)_

He joined their names on the map because he thought that was how you made friends, _and even if Bucky didn’t want to be his friend after_, he remembers his childhood brain then thinking,_ maybe it’ll make him less sad_. He remembers thinking the brown-haired boy had a swell smile - and wanted the grumpy upset frown on his face to go away the way it was going away before Sister Agnes came over - even if he talked a lot and was a little annoying when he didn’t get his own way.

(Steve doesn’t like not getting his own way either, not that he’d realized that about himself at that time.)

It had turned out though, after the map and that fight - Bucky _had_ wanted to be his friend. His _best_ friend in fact, and wasn’t willing to take _no_ for an answer.

The next day when Steve’s ear was still smarting from how the nuns had pulled it; while everyone was grumbling about not being let outside at recess (but Steve didn’t much care because he didn’t go outside heaps anyway); Bucky had thrown a balled up piece of paper at his head. He’d turned around, aggravated on how the bullies couldn’t _even leave him alone now_, and Bucky had been grinning at him; motioning at him to open the paper.

The note had said: _“want to go stare at candy I pinky promise we won’t steal after the bell?_”

The notes the next day said: _“why is Sister Judith so annoying?”, “do you want to eat lunch together?”, “what games can your thas-ma thing play?”, “stop ignoring me, Steve, write back.”, “do it when they turn round, like this. They won’t notice.”_

_“Steve Steve Steve Steve”_ and finally, _“do you want to come to my house for dinner? Say yes and ask your mama later. Or don’t, cause you’re coming anyway.”_

Turns out Bucky hadn’t even asked _his parents_ if Steve could come over, let alone even given Steve a chance to ask his. He was impulsive and bonkers like that - and it’s that confidence that Steve has always admired about him.

Bucky says, looking at him again. “Like I said, you made all the difference. If you hadn’t come in then no one else woulda’ started fighting back and I woulda’ got pummeled as bad as you always got every time.” Steve can’t help but snort silently.

“Huh.” He says, as for a moment that’s all he can say.

“Huh, what? Are you…are you saying you didn’t do it for…” _For me._

“I did. No, I absolutely did,” Steve says, knowing that’s true. “I just - I guess I just didn’t think you really needed the help.”

“You were wrong.” Bucky tells him, straight away.

“Apparently so.” He notes, leans his head back to look at the stars visible through a singular break in the leafy branches above them. He adds wistfully, “best block fight ever.”

“The best.” Bucky agrees, his tone the same. “I miss it. Things were so simple then.”

Steve hums, agreeing. “Simple as Micky Mouse movies, candy, and bullies. Who was better; Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon? What radio play we were going to listen to. My ma’s casserole._ Your _ma’s chocolate cake - I miss that freaking chocolate cake so much.” Steve says as Bucky shuffles again. He commiserates. “You only had to throw a ball of paper at my head to get my attention - now you have to fire three bullets at me.”

Bucky huffs a soft airy laugh, hand fidgeting on his holster. His other moves to scratch his arm over his jacket, and then under his sleeve; digging his nails into his skin. He shrugs. “Things change, we’ve said it before. Some for the better - like you. Some for the worse--”

“--_Not_ like you.” Steve says before he can say it.

“I was going to say like the war.” Bucky replies after a moment.

“Oh. Okay fine. That’s okay then.”

His friend glances at him again, withholding a smirk from the looks of it, and then turns back to the spot he’s been watching for any signs of the enemy. “I’m just saying - look at you. You’re healthy now. You dislocated your knee - to the point it probably would cripple a guy for life - nine hours ago and you can probably already start walking on it again. It’s not so simple - but it’s good. I _don’t_ miss you nearly dying every winter.”

“Me neither.” Steve adds honestly, a part of him internal shivering; the memory of a fever.

They sit in silence a bit more; and Steve finds his mind wandering back over their old memories together. He’s always been a man of the moment - so he’s never really done it before - simple things like he said; just chilling at each others homes, listening to the radio, doing homework; giving their families’ extensively pompous reviews of the movies they’d seen together like they were pretentious writers from The New York Times’. There was the hiding behind the racks in the comic shop and reading all the new strips without paying too; and then running away when they were caught; their birthdays when they were finally able to legally go buy a drink at a bar, the time Jenna told them that if they married each other then Bucky could turn into Buck Rogers, the space opera hero, because of their names - and how they should do it just for her.

‘_No one will mess with me if my brother’s Buck Rogers_,’ she’d announced as the _big-big_ reason, and they’d had to explain, awkward and red how that’s not how things were done; and that no one was gonna mess with her with Bucky Barnes as her brother anyway, or Steve Rodgers as her pseudo brother.

_‘I guess that’s true.’_ She’d said eventually, down heartened, and Bucky had said -_ ‘take Steve with you, he’s small enough that’d he’d pass for someone in your class anyway.’_

Steve had smacked in the head with a magazine three times for that, declaring _‘you’re a terrible friend’_ while not meaning a single word. Bucky joking about his size was never to be taken seriously, or personally - and because of that comment Jenna_ had_ taken Steve’s side. He has never forgotten the incensed defence a wild seven year old girl wearing pigtails had given for him, nor how easily she’d recruited her twin into turning on their own blood.

Even the memories where he’s sick are often simple ones; in that yes, he was in a lot of pain but his ma was always there; in the corner of his vision if not before him, mopping his brow and singing the same Irish lullaby she’s always sung to him; right from when he was still in her swaddle. Not forgetting that half the time; when their parents would let him, Bucky was there too. And in the aftermath, there’s simple memories of him sitting head to toe with Steve on the bed, playing ‘I Spy’, ‘Who are they at home’ and helping Steve catch up on all the homework he missed. There’s the trips to Coney Island, and Rockaway beach; the long subway rides; wracking up the miles on the rails all night long; making up a stupid game of who could travel to the other end of the city and back first on different convoluted subway routes. The weekends they claimed as theirs; declaring to Bucky’s pa that they were ‘free men’ and they would do what they wanted on their weekends, and _‘no pa, I will not work or babysit’_ \- and then, _‘fine; okay, I’ll do the evening. But I’m taking the day!’_

There’s not so simple memories too; like the reason they rode the subways all night in those stupid races was that it was Steve’s way of distracting Bucky at sixteen, when he didn’t want to go home to the awkwardness and the feeling of having to lie all the time. Or the memories of how Steve was so angry at life and what had or hadn’t been given to him, and how they’d taken his ma when they should have taken him. Or the times when yes; they were living together and everything was so great and amazing and _fun_; but how sometimes they were so low on money and rent that Bucky was working all the time to cover it, and Steve was left in bed so sick and guilty over how tired and stressed Bucky was getting when the money wasn’t stretching the way it should have done.

He doesn’t think about the not-so-simple memories though - because there’s so many more simple ones to override it all - and it’s super nice to think of them again. Steve’s never thought he’d be wistful of the past, yet here he is.

“You know, really - if you want to sleep again - you can.” Bucky says suddenly, breaking him out of his thought. Steve turns; and there’s not anymore new light on him than before, but there’s a lot more that Steve can see now. “I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t.” Steve says, and grabs Bucky’s right sleeve and pulls it towards him in the dark, stopping him scratching red lines into his forearm. “But I’m great here.”

. . .

The boys find them before Steve and Bucky can find the boys - before they even get a chance to leave the forest - swinging themselves back in a ‘patrol’ dressed as German soldiers in a new, far more put together truck. Dugan lets out explicit coughs every twenty seconds - obnoxious enough that they recognize it as him and come out of concealment.

“I said, _we _would catch _you_ up.” Steve reveals, shaking his head. “Not the other way round.”

“We were bored.” Dugan says.

“And notoriously worried,” Jones spills, “not that some of us like to admit it.”

“I was doing alright without you.” Morita tells them over-importantly, observing his nails in a dismissive tease. “It was quite nice actually. I might ditch you again for a break.”

“You ditch _me_ and another commando in this squad will get a bullet in the ass.” Bucky informs.

Falsworth rubs his ass in appeasement and faux-misery. “That’s an awful thing to commit a man to, Barnes. Also - don’t be late again, or Cap probably will have a heart attack next time.”

“Did you get him?” Fletcher asks, after they all stifle their grins and Steve fails to stifle his blush. “The Red Skull?”

Bucky looks away. Steve, who’s regained his feet now his knee has healed enough overnight; following the nutrients of the rabbit they managed to wrangle last night, pats him on the shoulder. He’s rather tired today - from the dream and the healing of the bone and the bruises - healing takes up a lot of energy. “No dice I’m afraid. We’ll get him next time.”

“Worth a shot though.” Jones says, nodding---

\---“Or six missed shots.” Bucky grumbles under his breath. Steve smacks him lightly in the arm; half admonishment and half a ‘cheer up’ gesture.

\---“Even if it did give us all a hell of a shock.” Jones continues, not noticing. “Good on you boys.”

Falsworth clears his throat. “You hungry?”

“Starved.” Steve answers, rubbing his hollow grumbling belly. God, he’d kill for a coffee. “He needs a bandage for his leg by the way.” He notes after.

“He needs to_ stay off_ his leg.” Bucky retaliates.

“My leg is fine--”

“And we will get the Good Sir one.” Dugan cuts in before Steve can finish, slapping Bucky on the shoulder and then in with a swinging hug - who allows it for a couple of seconds. It’s such an improvement from what they were - Steve’s so proud of them both.

Morita and Dernier fold their arms out in a path between them to the truck - like an exaggerated pair of medieval footmen. Morita announces: “The carriage awaits the Good Lords if they would care to board.”

“We would.” Steve says primarily. “The Good Lords thank you for your good service, peasants.”

That at least gets a snorting laugh out of his friend.

. . .

19TH of March 1944 - ADMIRMAL RADIO (CBS) - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

_Here’s Doug Edwards:_

_DOUG: The German’s say that American bombers striking from Italian bases have attacked the southern Reich again today. So far there’s no word from our own headquarters. Last night the Royal Air-force hit Frankfurt and other targets with great force. Berlin reports that the Russians are now crossed on the Eastern River at Yonpolk and the Russians announced the capture of Kriminette, seventy miles North-East of Lovot, Poland. On the Italian Front the battle fought at Casino appears to be coming to an end with our troops in control of most of the town. But now for further details of the Italian Campaign, Admiral Radio takes you to CBS Algerres; Winston Burdett reporting:_

_[STATIC] [CONNECTION FIRED]_

_WINSTON: Practically the entire Rhone in Casino is in our hands today. Our troops have mapped up German packets in the rubble of the blasted town, laboriously wiped out sniper patrols and machine gun nests - and pushed on to Casino’s Western Run - where the enemy was still desperately clinging to the last strong-points; each composed of the wreckage of half a dozen houses. In the hills the West Indian troops hammered out further sharp gains, closing the gap around Casino to three-fourths of a circle. The Indians have edged forward towards the monastery ruins on Abbey Hill, where they now hold two humps of [STATIC] middle [STATIC]. It looks as though the final assault on the Abbey itself is near. This is still a battle of yard by yard annihilation. The Germans are still fighting with everything they have…The Luffewaffe yesterday stepped up it’s attacks in the [STATIC……..4:37 - 6:04 STATIC]_

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for the swearing haha. The more I re-read the more I realise my fingers have the incontrollable urge to swear without intervention of my brain. But I keep them in anyway! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, please feel free to comment and let me know your thoughts. Every comment makes me very happy, no matter how long or short. Or if you rather just read and enjoy - that's totally great too - just thanks for reading mostly. :) Stay safe kids, and hopefully this might be a nice distraction to what I'm sure is a very stressful few days for my American friends! I'm praying for you all!
> 
> REFERENCES:  
POLAND: In a leaked memorandum, which never made it to the main US newspapers, Heinrich Himmler wrote in 1940 that “the sole purpose of this schooling is to teach them simple arithmetic, nothing above the number 500; how to write one’s name; and the doctrine that it is divine law to obey the Germans…I do not regard a knowledge of reading as desirable.” Aside from propaganda performances; the only other kind were those of "low quality".
> 
> Spectacles of "low quality", including those of an erotic or pornographic nature, were popularized to appease the population and to show the world the "real" Polish culture as well as to create the impression that Germany was not preventing Poles from expressing themselves. German propaganda specialists invited critics from neutral countries to specially organized "Polish" performances that were specifically designed to be boring or pornographic, so they could also push the point to say this, what was classed as inappropriate, was natural to the culture; and so they were doing what was an improvement.  
^^ just some stuff I found super interesting.


	30. PART 20 (b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How many times did you and your folks feed me when I was a kid, huh?” He says, pausing; and opens a packet of hard bread - pushes it towards his mouth. “Even when you couldn’t really afford it either. You never managed to put the weight back on like Dernier did after Krausberg - you were getting there before we shipped out again; bulking you up with everything I could get you - but it was easier back then.” When everyone wanted to give Captain America extras and get on his good-side. “I got all this for you, same as no doubt you and Peg got my rations for me with your little collusion. Please.” He finishes. “Just let me do this for you, Bucky. Please take the food.”
> 
> His stares at the can of Rinderbraten. His mouth waters. He takes the food. He eats the food. He eats a good chunk of the food - especially the meat -behind a garden wall - and for the first time in near forever; he feels sated.

_(Kill order released on the "American" and Allies.)_

_SENDER: HERR ARMIN ZOLA RECIPICENT: All outposts)_

BUCKY

About sixty miles from the base, an hour or so after the boy’s unceremonious pick up; after they’ve been supplied with copious amounts of coffee - they find a rushing river. They’re in the middle of nowhere so they stop, filling up their canteens. Then they find a wider and deeper pool, so in the silence of the Polish forest they strip off and bathe - scrubbing under their armpits and reliving themselves from the itchy feeling of their dirty skin. It’s a quick in and out at first, even if they’re fairly safe here, as the water is rather nippy. The boys exit with a little of the chills. Bucky and Steve stay in longer, lounging and naked, and the most dirty, while Bucky ensures all the smelly paint is scrubbed off him. The cut on his leg stings something fierce at first, but eventually dulls off. He’s not fool to the fact that it would, and should, be a lot worse if his pain tolerance weren’t now so high. They decide to see if they can catch a fish. Bucky wants to see if his marksmanship is so good that he can shoot one underwater. He’s in a better mood after the coffee.

“We’re not wasting ammo to test that flipper McGee.” Morita says, rolling his eyes. “Try and catch one with both hands and toss em’, like your ancestors did.”

Bucky gives it a good go - is successful at slipping and falling headfirst into the water, but unsuccessful at catching a fish. Steve, with all the golden luck of a saint catches four - flinging them out in an even more dramatic scrabbling fall underwater than Bucky, still favouring one leg. Bucky’s ‘fix’ was a bit on the shabby side, and Steve’s body apparently decided it was going to right that wrong about an hour into their morning trek. He'd gone down in a sudden and abrupt crack; yelping; and Bucky caught him before he hit the floor around the chest.

_"Whatwhat?" He'd fired out, grabbing and tugging him at a yank behind a tree. For a moment - a hot moment - he'd thought the Hydra sniper had found them - had found them and **shot Steve in the chest.** But there was no blood. "Are you hit? Steve, **are you hit?**"_

_"No. No<strike> I</strike>'m." He squeezes Bucky's one arm still around him, to brace the both of them, tugs Bucky's other with his side-arm up and cocked, down. Makes him look away from curving around the tree-trunk for enemies. "No attack."_

_"Thenwhat?" He's entirely bewildered._

_"My own stupid body."_

_"Huh?"_

_Steve makes a face, grinds his teeth; and stands back up; bent low at the waist to run a hand over the offending, now apparently properly fixed, appendage. " Well, **ow.**" _

The fish fall onto the bank where the boys stop them from flip flapping away. Bucky’s laughing when Steve emerges; flushed but proud - and it turns pleased when he sees the source of the laughter - grinning at Bucky’s grin. In a flight of unexpected camaraderie, fuelled by his birthday orange the other day, Bucky comes up behind him and ducks his head down when he’s trying to spy another; and rolls off him as Steve flips him over his shoulder - spluttering.

When they emerge after three more successful fling-and-falls Steve goes to gut the fish; and Bucky dries himself off, watching, until he can’t take it anymore. Steve’s doing a great job; and would do a better job than Bucky by far at this but - the fish are piled haphazardly - it’s asymmetrical so much that

“Let me.” He cuts in, “you did all the work; only fair that you sit back and reap the benefits. Plus, I screwed up fixing your jammy leg.”

Steve raises an eyebrow; first at the unusual slang he doesn't recognise: "Jammy?"

"Dodgy." Bucky explains, bouncing on the balls of his feet, crouching.

"Oh. That's a new one." It's a Scottish one, is what it is. Bucky'd never heard of it until Andrew threw it at his face, mostly usually in regards to Bucky's own sense of humour. The second eyebrow raise is at the sentence; but Steve holds out his knife, flipping it so the handle is facing Bucky. “And you didn’t screw anything up. I could walk.”

“Until your body decided it wasn’t up to standard.”

“And then I couldn’t again. I’m agreeing with your fix more than mine is right now, trust me.”

It sounds like, under his breath, Steve calls his body '_a dick._'

“Sure.” He notes dismissively as he lays the knife down straight away to arrange the fish; one by one; side by side - and then, only then does he pick up the knife and start. His mind settles; and his movements are easy. Steve corrects him on technique, shows him a way to make it cleaner; having learnt to cut when he worked two months at a fishmonger when he was seventeen; and it’s great. It’s good. It’s easier than finding the words to speak. Steve gives him back the knife, and when he puts the finished fish down he purposefully returns it at the same spot as Bucky put it, perfectly straight and leaning on the same right side as all the others.

Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice, but he does; and is both embarrassed and grateful that Steve follows his pushy special ordering. Everything has a place - it just, it helps Bucky make sense of everything when he knows where the small things should go.

Other than that, other than their near miss yesterday - it’s a good day. Especially when Dernier shows him his new lighter, written in English. It says: ‘When I die bury me face down so the whole world can kiss my ass.’

He laughs. “That’s a good one.” He likes that very much.

“I thought so too. It’s one of yours.”

“What?” Bucky asks, a bemused frown on his face now.

“You said it to us. In…in the cages. You do not remember?” Dernier explains.

“Oh. No…sorry.” He says lamely. _Did he?_ Did he say that? It sounds like something he’d say. Memory doesn’t work the way he thought it did anymore - as evidenced when he forgot their position as soon he lost his direction. “Did I really?”

“You did.” Dernier confirms, then smiles and claps him on the arm. “It’s alright, you come out with so many beauties it e’s not surprising you do not - do not remember all of them. Anyways, I thought you would like it. A um, a late birthday present - seeing as you decided not to tell the rest of us.”

“Tell the rest of us what?”

“It was e’s birthday e’ other day.”

“You motherfucker, _what?_” Dugan exclaims, “why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“I forgot.” Bucky defends. “Like completely, until Steve reminded me.”

“You’re shitting me. How can you forget your birthday?”

“If I ask you now what day it is, can you tell me?”

Dugan splutters, “Wha- that’s not the same thing. Today’s not _my_ birthday! We celebrated Jim’s in London!”

“We weren’t in London for mine--”

“That’s not the point man.” Dugan says, and slaps him on the back of the head. “Happy birthday, you shit. That lighter is from all of us then.”

“Er, no. The lighter is from me, Dum a’ Dum. Get your own present.” Dernier retorts immediately. He flicks the lighter on, then off. He stares Dugan in the eyes, pompously; excruciatingly mocking. He looks far too smug.

Bucky and Fletcher snort together. He leans back against the tree, crosses his arms. “Oh, what you gonna do now? I’m feeling woefully unappreciated. Can you believe it Fletcher? It was my birthday and he got me nothing. I thought we were friends.”

“Absolutely shameful.” Fletcher says, shaking his head in disappointment. “It’s embarrassing. You just can’t trust people nowadays.”

Dugan pulls a face at him, then turns and calls: “Oi, Cap!”

“Yeah?” Steve replies, returning from round the other side of the clearing, zipping up his trousers. He hovers on one leg, stretching his knee out forwards and backwards. He’s not grimacing anymore.

“You get Barnes anything for his birthday?”

“Yeah. Oranges, socks and a drawing I did.” Steve says, “why?”

“I claim the socks!” Dugan calls abruptly.

“I claim the oranges!” Falsworth dibs, and then Morita smacks him on the arm. “_Fine.”_ he allows with a put-upon sigh. ”Okay. I claim _one_ orange.”

“I claim the other!” Morita puts his stake in to, and they look at Jones, waiting for him to call it.

Gabe shrugs, “Eh, he knows I like him, I don’t need to get him anything to show my love.” He blows a kiss at Bucky; who suddenly _can’t stop _laughing._ He feels shockingly merry. _“Happy-sorry-we-missed-your-birthday, man.”

“What the hell is going on?” Steve asks.

“They’re claiming your presents so they don’t all look like terrible friends.” Jones replies lightly to the sounds of Bucky's hysterical laughter, “it’s despicable, really.”

Steve chuckles, chest vibrating as Bucky manages to catch his breath. “Well alright, only seeing as my mother taught me to share. This one time. You’re on your own next year.”

“Next years your two-five yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky confirms, coughing a couple of times to bring himself under control.

“We’re having you a party - that’s a milestone that is.” Falsworth continues, even though it isn’t. Not one that Bucky’s ever heard of anyway. “You’re gonna be pissing booze out your eyeballs you’ll be so sloshed.”

Bucky blinks at him, “that’s the strangest sentence I’ve ever heard come from your mouth, Monty, but alright. Thank you Jones, for your un-giftable love;” Jones tips his head at him in acknowledgement, motioning with his hand as if he’s wearing a hat and tipping that too. “Thank you Frenchie, may my ass always be up for the world to kiss. Thank you people I thought were my real friends for the last minute wrangle to save face. I will treasure you in my heart always."

“You better.” Dum Dum grins, and yanks him to his feet. “You’ll be praying to us next year, just you wait.”

“Praying for you to stop forcing hooch down his throat more like.” Steve adds.

“And that, Cap, that right there is why you can’t get drunk anymore. Not cause of your super-solider-ness, but cause you’ve got no imagination when it comes to drinking games. Probably tossed it out with your asthma since it figured it wouldn’t be useful.”

“If you say so Dugan, sure.” Steve replies mildly, coming closer after slinging a pack into the back of the truck. It’s mild because on the contrary Steve’s great at coming up with swell games, he’s just not great at putting them into practice_ after _making them up. He used go embarrassed and red whenever anything too saucy came up - which with their group of friends - it always did.

Steve was such a funny drunk, Bucky remembers, too funny to put into words. Such a goddamn lightweight, such a wild-fuckin’ ride - you never knew what was coming. You don’t sober either, honestly, but drunk Steve takes it to a whole other level. He doesn’t like how sad it’ll make him to never again witness the majesty that is an intoxicated Steve Rodgers.

“There’s gotta be something that’ll get you drunk.” Bucky says, leaning into Steve while he re-ties his boots, finishing shucking his shirt back on. They’ve been leaning into each other all morning and yesterday, so it’s almost a natural state now. “I miss it. You were a very sloppy drunk.”

“I was _not._”

“Were to.”

“Was not.”

“What are you guys, ten?” Morita laughs.

“_Were to._” Bucky emphasizes. “How many bar stools did you break in the Pinkerton?” Bucky reminds him. “Seven. In_ six months_ before we got banned. How many times did you walk into Bertie’s sofa and somersault over it? Eight by my count. How many times have you almost done the same thing off the _fire escape?_ An ungodly amount from how many times you’ve nearly given me a heart attack for it. Speaking of that - how many times have you nearly_ taken me off with you?_ How many doors have you walked into? How many glasses, plates and perfectly good bottles of sherry have you smashed? How many times have you had to run into the alley for a tactical spew? Too many to count, my friend. Too many."

“He’s exaggerating.” He tells the commandos and Fletcher.

“I am not! These are all true accounts. He’s slurs. Big-time.” Bucky continues, “it’s like a whole other Steve language, and god help you if you don’t know it.” He ducks Steve swing. “ You are sloppy pal,” Bucky tells him, balancing against his shoulder and giving him a friendly slap on the cheek, “but you are _great fun_. I want drunk Steve for my birthday next year. Find a way to get him to me.”

“I could just find a fire escape and jump off it. Is that close enough?”

“I want you off your face and will accept nothing less.”

Steve huffs, smiling, “I’ll find a way to get him to you.” His best friend says, swinging an arm around his shoulder and herding him and the rest back to the truck. It’s time to go. “Now come on.”

“One sec,” Bucky calls, freeng himself and leaning down to retrieve the rest of his stuff on the ground. He picks up his left over orange, jacket and thigh holster, kicking the leftover fish-guts into the water with one foot while Falsworth sweeps their frying pan and heater back into the pack. He passes it to Morita, who loads it up.

“You’ve re-bandaged your leg yourself when you changed right Birthday-boy?” He checks over his shoulder to Bucky.

“Yep.” Bucky replies. Then, he realizes he’s just picked up the cotton patch with his orange. He threads a hand against his thigh over his trousers; fabric sticking to the water still on his skin. It’s bare._ Oh_. Maybe he didn’t need one. He would have re-wrapped it otherwise, and he did remember to go to do it. Can’t think what it looked like when he did - he was distracted by the cluttered fish...

_Sweet. _His mind chirps automatically_, Must not have been as bad as they thought then._

“Buck?”

“Yeah,” he calls, shaking out the last of the water from his hair. The fish sits nicely in his belly. “M’ coming."

. . .

“You’re just as bad you know.” Steve says as they’re driving again when Bucky’s peeking under the heavy bandaging on Steve’s arm. It’s puckered, blistered and covered in cream - looks and smells awful - and it probably didn’t help when Steve got it wet - but it’s healing. Looks slightly better than when it first happened at least. That’s good. It does look like it’s going to scar though - Bucky has no idea how it can _not._ He's pretty sure he saw bone under all the scorched flesh, when it first happened.

“Hmm?”

“When your drunk. In a different way, but just as bad.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks, now poking Steve in the knee, “like how?”

“There’s a awful pun every single minute, and jokes. Bad jokes. Terrible ones that are only funny because they’re so terrible. You up the volume by eighty percent, you sing, _you never shut up_.” Steve lists. “Getting you to stop dancing is a nightmare. Getting you to watch your wallet is even worse!”

Bucky snorts to himself, poking the knee again. There’s no twinges on Steve’s face anymore.

“You go all night; you’re exhausting --- would you stop hovering --- I barely used to be able to keep up.”

“The good kind of exhausting though, right?”

“Right.” Steve agrees, going to thumb Bucky’s thigh as payback, who slides away without meaning to. Steve rolls his eyes and checks his wrist instead. His lips curl in approval when the bruises he gave Bucky over his arm seem to be fading quickly - mottled yellow instead of muddy blue. “So long as your not spending every last dime we have on jazzy drinks the bartender barely has to talk you into.”

“I was expanding our horizons. Expanding our taste-buds.” Bucky defends as Steve releases him and he begrudgingly allows himself to stop hovering.

“Not much to taste when you forget your holding em’ and so spill them halfway across the dance floor before I even get my hands on them to try.” Steve rolls his eyes. “You have thrown up in just as many alleys as I have, pal.”

“Am I funny?”

“You know you’re funny.” Steve slants a look at him. “Until--”

“I start spending all our money, _I know._” Bucky laughs. It’s a very good day today, he decides; an easy talking day; they don’t come that often anymore. He’s going to make sure he remembers it forever.

“I used to have to confiscate his wallet at midnight whenever we went out on the town instead of staying in with friends.” He clues in Dernier and Fletcher, who are in the back with them today. Falsworth and Morita are napping, the others driving. “Otherwise say bye bye half our rent, and our grocers money for good measure when he used to _steal it back._”

“Honestly,” Bucky adds, “it should be very embarrassing on your part considering how many times I was able to do that before you noticed. Like I said - _sloppy_.”

Steve ignores that one, but grins at him again. “You know you said to me once, and I quote: ‘My goal in life is to be as rich as I think I am when I’m drunk.’”

Dernier laughs, _loudly_, chuckling into Bucky’s shoulder. He’s a very generous, very tactile man. Bucky does remember that; horrendously hungover on the subway home in the dawning sun. That was a great night - even if he’d accidentally spent the last of Steve’s very first newspaper cartoon paycheck on a round of drinks he doesn’t remember actually getting to consume. “That goal still stands unaccomplished, but has not been discarded. For the record.”

“Now why does that not surprise me.” Fletcher says with a smile.

“Of course,” Steve adds on, “and may you accomplish it someday.” He clangs his canteen into Bucky’s in a camaraderie cheers.

Forget a good day, this is a goddamn _swell _day. He feels _happy_.

. . .

They won’t be in the field for as long as they were last time, but they have got some jobs to do here. Just as in France in those first weeks; they’ve been promoted to saboteurs alongside tracking down the numerous outposts in the North of Poland, exposed in the intel recovered in the base. Then they’re to make their way along to the East; and join up with the Soviets for a while. Things are moving quickly, being put in place.

They blow up a bridge, and sabotage a railway; and spy on many many bases of operations. They go through the intel they recovered from the base, and spend hours frowning at particular accounts and photographs of obscure symbols and drawings that are not chemical or engineering in nature. They hit three of Hydra’s lesser manned supply outposts, and nearly get blown up. The doors are rigged to blow upon opening without a pass-code:

_“Well that’s slightly concerning.” Steve notes, herding them back slowly._

_“Reckon they knew we were coming?” Fletcher asks from the back._

_“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?"_

They quite simply attach a rope to the door handles and _yank_ so Hydra’s device blows itself up. They learn they very nearly didn’t back up enough.

_“We know for next time.”_

_next time?!”_

In _Elblag_ near the coast Antonio finds them, wrapped up tight in a hat and scarf to disguise his darker skin; in an exquisite disguise, speaking Ukrainian. None of them recognize him except Steve, who even then takes a good few seconds to lower his guard; and Antonio himself from where he’s just slammed him into a wall.

“You wear a disguise that good,” Falsworth says, “and we might kill you on accident. Jesus, how do you even do that?”

“Pure Talent.” Antonio tells them quite confidently.

He warns them Hydra know they’re still in the area and have upped their guards; and that every single base and outpost in the entirety of Hydra’s existence have all been sent a telegram. There’s a kill order out on all of them.

“Well, that’s exciting.” Steve says this time, the undisguised bloody maniac of their group.

“How did I know that’s how you would take it?” Antonio laughs, echoing Fletcher only a day and a half ago.

“What happened to ‘slightly concerning’?” Bucky asks.

“I think ‘slightly concerning’ is well out of the window by now,” Dugan notes out of the side of his mouth. “It’s been two days Sarge, keep up.”

”Right. How stupid of me.”

“Bright-side equals a bright outlook.” Steve replies promptly. Since Italy Steve’s been doing his best to keep up a good attitude, and not to linger on things that can’t be helped. He was down, like Bucky, for several days after what happened with those kids in the cellar, the guarding of the women, and the unsanctioned execution of the SS officer - but he’s trying. And so Bucky is trying to match him. He reckons Carter smacking a good one on him probably helped matters - forget God, 'in Peggy Carter we trust.'

(Steve refuses to kill unless he has no other choice; he decides to give Nazi’s a chance to surrender honourably, and what happened in Roccaserra hasn’t changed that; even if he has admitted to agreeing somewhat to the fate of the SS officer. He still reported it. That’s the kind of person Bucky thinks he used to be; or the kind he's always wanted to be. Before. Does he still want to? Can he? At least one of us still is.

_What bothered him,_ Bucky thinks_, is the perturbing realization that it’s not just the Nazi’s doing unsavoury things. It’s all of them, on both sides. On their side._ But he’s picked himself up, or at least, has forced himself to as a form of coping.)

“We’ve got reports that Schmidt is here too - in Poland.” Antonio adds.

They share a look. “Still?” They ask.

Antonio blinks at them. “What do you mean _still?_”

“We know already. We got a unexpected shot at him”

“You did? WhatWhen?”

“Turned up at the compound after we’d left” Falsworth explains to him. “Barnes spotted him on his route back to meet us.”

“And?” Antonio supplies, rapid and insistent.

“And I need to talk to Howard Stark about making me a bunch of bullets that are fast enough that he can’t dodge them.” Bucky snarks from the back of their group, slipping in through the doorway of the basement Antonio has led them down.

Antonio chokes on a breath, turns round to look at him. “He _dodged_ them?” He says, a question and a statement.

“He dodged _six._” Bucky clarifies, grumbling, but then backs himself up because - “they were good shots. They were - and he still dodged them.”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s not with the serum.” Steve admits, “I’ve dodged them before. Even from a sniper.”

From Bucky, he doesn’t say - but that’s something that doesn’t need to be said.

“Well, shit.” Antonio says, as there’s not much else he can say - and he only revealed himself to give them a heads up. They’re in the city to use the Underground State’s hidden black-out rooms for Fletcher to develop his still photographs; insurance if the films get damaged or destroyed; who’s been documenting more than just Steve doing flying flips to impress the women back home. They do what they need to do - and move on - heading East towards another suspected Hydra outpost, and then to catch a ferry across the seas to the Russian Front as ordered.

** _ **. . .** _ **

** **

DATE RECIEVED: RECIEVED STAMP, 16TH OF MARCH 1944

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - CLEARED] _

TO: SGT. JAMES BARNES, FROM: WINIFRED BARNES  
189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON SENDERS ADDRESS:  
4429 ELIZABETH ST. BELL GREEN. N.Y 

DATE: 6TH MARCH 1944

* * *

_My Darling,_

_Well it’s been a hot minute since your last letter, I may need to get more ink and some more practice to keep up; but you’ve always been the quickest of us two. First things first - happy birthday for soon love! I’m sending some chocolate over from the girls along with a few knick-knacks. Hopefully they remind you of home - we all miss you very much._

_From where I write I can see a very long way. I am alone on a rooftop of all bloody places near B bridge. I’ve just walked your lovely (irritating) sisters to school as they’ve taken to skivving if I don’t, the little rugrats, and stopped for some shopping. There’s a place opened up on the water so have stopped for a cheeky sip until Suzanne arrives, you remember Suzanne Sawyer; she used to babysit you when you were young. There are in the distance many half-built sky-scrapers, right up to the sky. There are two boats that I can see, sailing on the water. Over everything hang fantastic bulky clouds with wide patches of blue. If I turn around between the buildings I can see Mr Skye’s underpants and his wife’s nightgown hanging out to dry with a hundred other lines criss-crossing behind. You remember how it’s like, I’m sure. I don’t feel the need to tell you what colour the underpants are though, other than not white. I pity that woman if industrial detergent can’t get that out._

_Our Lily has a date tonight, a boy in her class. Seems a good sort - at least she’s not one to go for thugs. I worry I can’t say the same for Jenni-Jennikins who I caught with a Fat-head Swigger boy last week, God help us. I heard Becca got a promotion at her factory._

_We’re lower than we’d like on lettuce and rationing is beginning to take a heavier toll, but we’re coping. It’s nowhere near as bad as it was at Christmas in 29’._

_The clouds near the sun are dark underneath but shot with light above. It’s not even noon and yet it feels like the light will diminish soon. I feel a storm coming._

_When you were small, and far more imaginative, you used to tell me you could feel the bad weather coming by the tingle in your toes, and when it rained or snowed you’d do a lap of the yard and run back in absolutely bloody soaked and crow - ahah! at me. Your pa used to tease that you’d inherited my grandmother’s magic gift of the weathertime, even though there had never been anything of the sort. It made you so fuckin’ excited though, and I caught you once pretending to conduct the lightening. I swear you had your sister completely fooled, the way she used to look at you._

_But you know what Bucky? I think I feel a tingle in my toes. Bet you a dollar that nana did have a gift. Bet you a dollar it’ll storm soon._

_I’m going to the butchers later, or maybe tomorrow. Unfortunately that is the most exciting part of most of my days until I got your letter this morning. What a lovely letter - I can see you as I read it. How is it there? I suppose I probably won’t get an answer of where you are, apart from not training anymore, but I didn’t think you were in your last either since there was such a break between them. Nowhere near as much was blocked out this time though, so well done, hun._

_I hope you’re safe, even if that is an impossible hope. What is not a hope, but a goddamn instruction you hear me: is that you and Steve better be looking after each other out there. I mean it Bucky fuckin’ Barnes and Steven shittin’ Rodgers. I still don’t understand what happened there other than something toppety top secret and that he’s ‘big and strong and still blonde’ (Lily’s censored words - taken from your eldest sister’s uncensored ones apparently) but at least you’re together. Hope you’re keeping clean and keeping your hair short the way I like it; war or no I won’t have you looking a scruffy scoundrel. _

_Tell me something I am allowed to know. Tell me about you - are you alright? _

_You seem - you seem not like yourself in a way that isn’t just homesickness, love - mothers know these things even without seeing their children’s handsome faces everyday. I know we’ve been estranged for far longer than I ever wished, and that fault never lies with you, but I want you to know you can speak frankly, harshly, sadly, happily, stupidly to me no matter what. I’ll listen._

_I miss you my sweet one. Write soon, I’ll have more ink ready and raring for ya._

_Your ma._

* * *

. . .

He loves Steve with every bit of his being for answering his prayers and coming to save him when no one else could or would, he loves him so so much, but some days when it’s so dark and cold he wonders if it was worth it. Is it worth living in this terrible life now; head a mess of spitfire blankness, clammy hands hidden under bloody surgical gloves and the pure unadultered numbness that follows him round from waking to sleeping? Sometimes no, but sometimes yes, because he’s with Steve now even if he can’t touch him the same.

Then the lighter days come, and then sometimes the good days come where not everything seems so terrible and awful, but happy. They’re in a war but he’s in a war with his friends, and they make him laugh and smile at their jokes and antics; leave his heart thudding with adrenaline as they do something utterly idiotic. During those times he’s so focused on that, the idiocy, that he’s not focused on how many lights he turns out in the eyes of men. Some days he wakes with so much energy that he wants to go running and exploring, and every colour in the boring grey forest is so bright and vibrant he feels like he really is in wonderland - blitzed out on the wonderful drug that is life.

It changes so quickly he can’t keep up - but where the bright days are wonderful - they’re also fleeting, and the darker days linger longer. The numb days last the most.

. . .

**

_He’s on the trolley again, he thinks he’s strapped down, but, he’s not sure actually... Maybe not? His limbs feel heavy like lead, and his head’s muddy with - with everything and nothing. The wheels squeak as they roll and blurred impressions of overhead lights appear and disappear into the darkness of his eyelids with slow bleary blinks. His head rolls a little, lolling to the side until the blurred impressions lie behind the back of a dark figure - rolling the trolley with a hand on the edge._

_Light, blink, dark, light, blink, person, darkness, blink - so tired, so nothing, so everything. Blink, light, dark, blink, person. The guard turns in his direction, briefly looking at his invalid body laying limp on the trolley. Bucky blinks at him, nearly falling asleep._

_The creature is wearing the round stupid circular goggles._

_“I hate you.” Bucky tries to say but it comes out as one long slur, not a word at all let alone a sentence. His tongue is thick in his mouth - it rests weirdly over and under his teeth. So tired. He blinks again; dark, light, rolling. This is, this could maybe be okay if he could just disappear into rest without dreaming in his dream. So okay. Super okay. So super insanely okay._

_So tired._

_Blink, light, person, dark, blink, dark, blink, light, blink, goggles, light, blink, dark, blink, dark dark dark - aaahh, he breathes in okayness - awake!_

_Hands on his arms, legs, waist - they heave him off the trolley - _ ** _ **wow, they’re strong if they can lift the weight of a whole man made of lead. Lead is heavy. ** _ **

_His skull flops backwards on his neck, hanging at an aching stretch as he stares at the ceiling while they carry him. It smacks into something, ow, is forced forwards from the momentum as the stupid goggle creatures settle him in a chair. His feet are bare on the floor, wrapped up like a mummy in yellowed bandages, as they settle. It shouldn’t just be his feet; his whole body should be a mummy, buried above the earth instead of beneath it in a pyramid. The incinerator could be his sarcophagus._

_Leather straps buckle against his shins, compressing, and then around his bare stomach. Oh, he’s not wearing a shirt. The goggled creature leans in close as it reaches for the leather hanging off the back of the chair, and looks down as it buckles it over his belly button. It smells like cologne. He remembers cologne. The creature grabs Bucky’s floppy arms from where they’ve fallen and settle them on the arms of the chair. They buckle them down at the wrists, palms up like he’s begging for alms. _

_Can I please have some more? Bucky thinks deliriously like little Oliver Twist._

_He’s never been in a chair before has he, he doesn’t think - always a table, or a cot, or a trolley or - whatever the doctors call it - the thing. Is this real? Did this happen? Is he making it up? Who knows?_

_His head’s pulled up; a hand in front of his fringe - goggles. He can see goggles right in front of his face._

_The creature laughs, “__Seht ihn euch an. Die _weissbrot fresser’s_ aus dem Kopf.__ (“_**_**Look at him. The **_******weissbrot fresser’s******_** out of his mind.**_**_”)_

_“_ _Pathetisch.”_ _ (“_ ** _ **Pathetic.** _ ** _”) Comes another voice._

_“And yet this weissbrot fresser has survived longer than you likely would have.” Ah yes, here we are. The light glints off Zola’s spectacles. _

_‘Hello ye old bringer of not-death.’ He thinks, and then thinks about the stupid old-timey way he and his mother used to talk to each other as a joke when she was finally getting round to reading Shakespeare and Dumas; the language medieval and sprawling. _

_‘Hello ye bringer of doth nightmares. Might thy fuck off for one fucking night, if it pleases thy. It would please thee.’_

_If he could he’d laugh at his own sarcastic genius he would, but he can’t. He can’t say anything with his tongue as thick as a loofer. Zola drags out a huge needle attached to a clear tube - the hand in his fringe is replaced by sweaty sticky leather, another strap, keeping his head from dropping into his chest. Someone else has been on this chair already; has sweated all over it - probably the guy with no tongue. The carrot top, as Andrew called him once. He freaks Bucky out so Bucky doesn’t like him; and therefore he is an easy target to blame. He blinks, spectacles, blink, dark, light, _ ** _ **NEEDLE NEEDLE NEEDLE** _ ** _. It pierces his skin, going _ ** _ **deep deep deep** _ ** _, scratches and then punctures into the bone joint of his elbow. So much, too much, not enough. Empty, too tired. Blink._

_‘Doth please leave thee alone.’_

_Zola clips it to the thick clear tube; slow blink - yellow serum - a whole bag of the sickly stuff. Zola starts pumping - the whole thing suctions down the tube. It pulses- cold cold cold_ ** _ ** ICE. ** _ ** _Bucky’s eyes roll up, flickering under his lids as his teeth start chattering. His muscles seize up and seize against the leather._

_“C-C-co-co--ld - mmmm” he tries to slur out; not numb but aroused awake with sharp pin pricks of pain; every muscle, every patch of skin. His mind’s eye comes to life and he’s looking inside of himself - watching the serum race down his blood to his organs, like a travelling frost storm. He watches as it encroaches and swallows his heart with a gulp. The edges catch with icicles; and stalactites hang from below it; a layer of white frost and ice encasing. It cracks into spiderwebs with each pump of blood before it freezes over again - a cycle - until it’s not. His frozen heart pumps slower, and lesser and…it stops._

_He blinks - looking out on the lab with no heartbeat; everything frozen and dead inside him. Is this it? Is this the moment he passed into unbeing?_

_“No Vita-Kammer today, Sergeant.” The man with the spectacles says. _

_Flakes of snow drift downwards, covering his eyelashes in blurry white spots. It coats him in a layer, like a blanket, and Zola wipes a bright orange substance over his exposed forearm. It feels like slug slime; crawling up his arm in a swab - pins and needles with each tendril of touch. His skin is blue._

_“Applying the iodine,” Spectacles dictates to it’s dicta-phone. “Making the first incision now.”_

_Spectacles, light glinting off them, cuts a line down his arm. He doesn’t bleed. When Spectacles pries and cranks open the skin with the spreader, exposing veins and muscles - it’s covered in icicles; frozen inside as well as out._

_Too empty, too much - too everything, too nothing._

Bucky jolts forward with a start.

The engine rumbles underneath his seat, and the heats turned right the way up. It even smells hot. His body is sweating but he can’t feel the blower. They’re on a pitched road, trees lining either side on the very edge of dawn; just beginning to turn light.

“You okay?” Steve asks, glancing between him and the road from the drivers seat. He breathes out through his nose, getting his bearings. He hums, and glances behind him to see a glimpse of the commandos sleeping in the back of the truck through the canvas.

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him. He thuds back into the seat. Stares out the window. He has to swallow.

“When they injected you with the serum,” Bucky asks, mouth dry. He swallows again. “did it hurt?”

“Yeah.” Steve replies immediately. “It hurt like hell - felt like all my muscles - every single one - were tearing apart. I thought I was gonna die.”

“Really?” He manages to push out, surprised.

“Yeah.” Steve says again, “it’s probably not what you want to hear but it’s the truth.” Though there isn’t an inflection Steve still manages to emphasize the word _‘truth’_ just by choice of using it. “How come you’re asking?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just leans his head back against the seat. “Buck?” Steve prompts.

“Was it cold?”

“What?”

“The serum, was it cold? Or hot? Or nothing at all - just pain?”

“Oh.” Steve replies, but seems to want to be unequivocally honest with him. “No. Hot. Like I was burning; on fire; it felt like when the flame goes so hot that it turns blue. You know what I mean? And then the doors opened and I was,” he gestures to himself with one hand, the other on the wheel. “I was like this.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Steve confirms. “You know this,” he says then. “You read the report…didn’t you?”

Bucky shrugs - so it’s not clear if it is a yes or a no. He leans his head against the cold condensed window, and closes his eyes. Steve says his name again - a question, but he just curls away into himself as a response.

He knows tomorrow will be a bad, dull empty day.

. . .

Over the next couple of days things get better - Steve pulls out all the stops - and breaks off from their group in the middle of the night. He disappears with the truck, leaving them stranded. Bucky’s furious when he finds out Steve gave Dernier orders - orders he couldn’t disobey - not to wake any of them until he gets back. He’s almost apocalyptic… until Steve comes back with a mountain of food. Then instead of his stomach plummeting - it ascends and…there’s jerky. The Polish kind - but still Jerky - and several cans of hotdogs; which have long been his favourite. Then he could kiss him.

“The hell, man?” Dugan splutters as he heaves the two loaded packs off his back; and opens the trunk.

“Think of it as gratitude for a job well done - and you were all looking a bit peeky.”

“But how?”

“There’s a supply port an hour away - I overheard the shipping schedule yesterday - so raided it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped--”

“Better I did it on my own.” Steve says, “wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

Underneath the excuse - there’s a unsavoury glint to him that hints that whatever he did to get the food - he’s not entirely proud of it. Bucky doesn’t care - it’s food. It’s _fucking hotdogs. _He could cry. Steve shares it out between all the boys; for today and for the coming days, keeping some aside for any starving civilians they come across - situated into two large piles. Bucky shovels his down his throat so fast he barely chews; then makes sure Steve’s actually eating his - bigger - appropriate share. He is.

He gives Bucky what he gives the rest - and privately - more some. When the boys aren’t looking he herds one of what Bucky thought was the civilian piles into a canvas bag and slips it under Bucky’s bedroll, disguised by the angle of his Thompson.

“Some would say this is special treatment.” He tries to joke at first - almost snatching the loose items towards him - then….then he looks at the boys across the way and feels bad. He makes his hands unclench around the packets - “no we should - we should share it.”

The tone that comes out shows that he’s unhappy about it - but it’s the right thing to do. He says that exact sentence to his best friend.

“I know it is,” Steve replies, and breaks off to listen to Bucky’s stomach rumble badly. “But you’re hungry. I can tell. You have been for a long time.”

He looks away, because he has - so so hungry. Everything aches. His ribs ache from where he can feel them through his skin.

“Please.” Steve says, and subtly but expressively pushes the food towards him and, when he thinks he’s not paying attention; stuffs more in his pockets. “Just take it.”

“Steve--”

“Take it.”

He presses his lips together - because what Steve’s offering him - is more than Steve needs to eat. It’ll last him over a week, if he stretches it - even though he could easily eat it all in a day. _Since when does he need more food than Steve, with his ridiculous metabolism, does?_

“Don’t stretch or ration it out. You don’t need to make it last.” Steve adds quietly, in conjunction with his thoughts. A _Erbswurst_soup pellet ration drops into the base of Bucky’s pocket. He’s holding a roast beef _Rinderbraten__ can._ “Have as much as you need now - I have more._ Can get more."_

“This is too much.”

“How many times did you and your folks feed me when I was a kid, huh?” He says, pausing; and opens a packet of hard bread - pushes it towards his mouth. “Even when you couldn’t really afford it either. You never managed to put the weight back on like Dernier did after Krausberg - you were getting there before we shipped out again; bulking you up with everything I could get you - but it was easier back then.” _When everyone wanted to give Captain America extras and get on his good-side._ “I got all this for you, same as no doubt you and Peg got my rations for me with your little collusion. Please.” He finishes. “Just let me do this for you, Bucky. Please take the food.”

His stares at the can of _Rinderbraten._ His mouth waters. He takes the food. He eats the food. He eats a whole good chunk of the food - especially the meat -behind a garden wall - and for the first time in near forever; he feels sated.

He feels like crying - but not in sadness or fear or anything like that. He feels like crying in relief - so he does, just a little bit - just for a minute. It’s good.

He already feels more sturdy on his feet.

. . .

A good day, a bad day; a what day? This is the theme of his life.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: P/O RECIEVED STAMP, 19TH OF MARCH 1944

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **POSTAL SERVICE** **

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - CLEARED] _

TO: SGT. JAMES BARNES, FROM: WINIFRED BARNES  
189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON SENDERS ADDRESS:  
4429 ELIZABETH ST. BELL GREEN. N.Y 

DATE: 10TH MARCH 1944

* * *

_My Dearest Bucky,_

_Happy Birthday my love! I’ve packed a couple of goodies in the parcel for you to enjoy; the pack of your favourite cookies in there should make your day I hope, along with some hand lotion to stop those pianists hands from cracking too much; and a watch to keep track of the time. I wasn’t sure if you had one. I may have also shoved as much toilet paper as I could fit in the envelope - which you’ve probably already discovered. All’s fair on the shitter is what I say!_

_Your sisters send their ever-lasting love - to the end of their days, they say. Happy twenty-fourth; look at you, older than I was when I first had you. How the time can go. I would give 10 years of my life to see you for a few seconds, but I see you a thousand times in the night._

_I have news! I was right! It did storm! And - even better than news - I have gossip. I do so remember how you loved gossip. I heard from your Aunt Edith - our Dougie has been given another 6 month deferment, which is really swell for them I’ve got to say. I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that - I know how fond you two were as kids. But, Edith also keeps me in the loop of all the other things going on in good ol’ Indiana. There has been quite a bit of fuss over your other cousin Arthur this week. He's been trying to get into the Army unbeknown to his parents, - sound like someone else we know? Just a decade younger? - but Mrs. T - the neighbour, thought his parents ought to know about it - so blabbed the buck big-time to ‘em. Oh there was a lot of shouting when he ran home in hot haste about it. Sounds like they got into a fine row, and now he won’t say nothing to noone ‘bout anything - miserable as high heaven. Or high hell? Whichever works. Bet you he’s sporting some red welts on his ass. All he says is he has to join up in a fortnight, but as he is underage I suppose his parents could stop him. I don’t know whether they will or not._

_Might be a jolly good riddance if he is, from what I hear there is nothing but rows and deceitfulness going on where he is. But he’s always been a bit like that - is that cruel? Does the Army like bullies? Might be a good fit for him then if the GI’s can straighten him out - he’s certainly been puttin’ no effort into learnin’ a trade I’ll tell you that now. Your Aunt Edith probably tells me more than your Aunt Gertrude wants me to know, ha!_

_Well darling I don’t know much more to say now, so will close with love and kisses from your loving ma. Happy Birthday._

. . .

The temperature drops one week, suddenly, near the coast. Everyone is shivering. Bucky is not, if anything he feels - he feels warmer than usual, warm-blooded in a way that doesn’t come from the action. Neither is Steve. Everyone, somehow, at sometime, decides to bunk together; one great big commando pile in the metal rack of their truck, sucking on steaming _Erbswurst_soups. No one is entirely happy about the close quarters - but it’s better than freezing.

“You coming or what, doofus?” Dugan asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m good here.” He says from the corner.

“Aren’t you cold? It’ll be warmer over this side.” He jerks his head in the direction of the others.

Bucky shrugs.

“It ain’t your watch.” Dugan continues, pressing. “So you’ll be sleeping.”

“I know.” He repeats, “but I’m good here.”

Dugan gives him a look, scrunches his eyes up enough to crinkle at the corners, but abides by that deal they made in the cave. He doesn’t look like he likes it.

“Is there a problem?” Steve asks later, right before everyone rolls together when he notices Bucky’s put a good metre and a crate between him and the rest. Jones has watch out the canvas back on the edge of the group. He’s going to be sat pressed against Steve’s back.

He glances up from organizing his blanket the way he does to create his own personal human burrito. “No.” He replies lightly, “no problem.”

“Then why are you acting like we’ve all got the plague - way over here.”

Bucky huffs, smiling. “I’m not. I’m just…” He shrugs.

“It’s gonna be cold tonight.” Steve notes the same way Dugan did fifteen minutes ago.

“I’m not shivering.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re warm. You’ll get sick.”

“I won’t.” Bucky says, relaxed but contrary. “I’m not you.”

“Buck.” Steve repeats.

“What?” He laughs, “I’m fine, I’m just--good over here.”

Steve chews his cheek the way he’s always done, and presses his thumb into the curve on his palm, which he’s always done when frustrated but unable to do anything about it. He cards his hands together when he’s uncomfortable. Steve lowers his voice. “I’m your people, when you need people, remember? What is it?”

“Nothing.” Bucky repeats this time, smiling faintly at the words. _Your people_. “I swear, nothing’s wrong; I’m not--whatever your probably thinking. It’s not a big deal - there’s just.” He sighs, looking away for a moment. “There’s too many people. Too close. I’m fine here.”

Steve’s face clears in understanding. “You don’t want to be trapped.”

_Well, duh. Clearly._

“I’m fine here.” He repeats lightly, then nods for Steve to head for the rest before he can suggest two piles, or another goddamn plan. “Go. They need your furnace flesh over there. If it gets too cold I’ll join you, but really - I’m fine here. I’m…better here.”

_I’d rather be here than there right now._ Coldness, which he’s used to, is better than the feeling of no escape.

“You promise?”

“_Yes Steve_.”

. . .

“We’ll figure out a way.”

“What?”

“To sleep - when it gets too cold.” Steve says, in the morning. “We’ll figure out a way where you don’t feel---”

“You don’t need to do that, pal.” He interrupts, “I’m fine. No pneumonia on this side of the truck. Wasn’t even cold, really. Can’t say the same about Dum Dum, which is a shame.”

The man’s woken up with a cough and a very runny nose. They don’t exactly have tissues so his sleeve is already kind of covered in snot, which is a little disgusting - but Bucky remembers snotting all over the guy when _he_ had pneumonia in the cages - so fair’s fair.

Steve’s doing the thumb thing again. “Pal, stop.” Bucky orders lightly. “You don’t need toyou don’t need to be looking after me like this. I’m not a toddler in a swaddle, I’m a grown man; I know how to look after myself.”

“You could get sick--”

“I won’t--”

“--How can you know that? Huh?---”

“I--” He stops._ Because I just do. _He sighs, looking away.

“You don’t know that. Exactly.” Steve tries to start again.

“But I do.” He actually admits, which makes Steve raises his eyebrows, “That’s not my point.” He adds instead, to distract. “I’m looking after myself by keeping a distance, is my point. I know how I’d react, so I’m looking after _me,_ you get me? While I appreciate your over-protective mama-bearness - I would also appreciate for you to trust me when I know what’s best for me.”

He doesn’t phrase that one as a question.

. . .

**

_The hall they take him down is long and faintly lighted, a man under each armpit, a strong hand clasped on the collar at his neck as his legs sag at the knees. There’s little feeling there. He can hear the doctor walking ahead of him, not Spectacles, but the other one. The medical assistant? Or was there another? He steps as all doctors step, a soundtrack Bucky is well-learnt on; listening to the step of a half a hundred doctors as they stepped in and out of Steve’s hospital ward, declaring him likely or unlikely to endure the many treatments he’s had over the years. They step, often enough, with that little confiding gait that horses must have returning from funerals - not sad or mournful, more…suppressed satisfaction._

_There’s a chair, in the room at the end of the corridor - he knows this chair - the chair pregnant with the pains of the future. Out across the factory, in a flat, frail coherent monotone, resounds the song of a hundred machines doing their bit. He’s closer - further away from Andrew, no, wait - Andrew’s dead, isn’t he? - but closer to Dugan, and Jones, and Richards, and Tommy, and Barb and_ _ _ <strike></strike>

_The doctor is saying, “Help the subject onto the chair. You know the drill.” The translation echoes late in Bucky’s brain as he dissembles it._

_He catches sight of his face in the glass. It’s quite white, and swallowing convulsively. Why?_

_The back of the chair is altered, jerking down - and the doctor takes the loose end of a heavy but stained white sheet and binds him tight, round and round, his arms tight to his sides; wrapped up to the throat so he can’t move. The two goggles keep him upright, hands on his sides and collar; then one goes for his legs; and he’s being carried, then plopped down. His head tips back over the chair’s back; and the sweaty leather strap. He blinks at the ceiling; feet splayed in sagged angles; until they’re tied to the legs of the chair. He’s tied down elsewhere too, on the chest, over the stomach; tied down in a stupid sheet likes he’s playing half a stupid ghost at Halloween._

_The lights of the windows, the walls, then men, all go out into a great blank as the faceless doctor leans down. Then suddenly the dark breaks into a blotch of light, as the doctor trails the electric bulb up and down and across his face, stopping to examine his throat to make sure he’s still fully capable of swallowing._

_He sprays both nostrils with a mixture of cocaine and disinfectant. It burns and burns as it reaches his throat - there’s hands on his jaw, prying it open. He clamps it closed, grinding his teeth. No. NO._

_His stomach rumbles. He’s so hungry. So thirsty. _

** _ **No,** _**_the other part of him snaps, harshly. _ ** _ **Fuck off. No.**_**_ No one ever listens to the other part of him. He starts bucking uselessly in the sheet, flopping up and down like a fish._

_“Again?” One of them snaps in German. “You’d think he’d be used to it by”_

_He looses the thread, he’s too panicked. No. They tighten the straps, they force his mouth open; the metal clamp is on; wrenching his jaw open and and and_ _ _ <strike></strike>

_He’s choking on the obstruction in his throat, it has a metal end with an edge. There’s a goggled goon above him threading a tube _ ** _ **down down down.** _ **

_A pitcher of milk and cabbage sludge sits on the side._

_“Buck!”_

He blinks and he’s in the woods, crouched at the base of a tree in the pitch black of night. To his side, so he has more time to move if he needs to is Steve, crouching, holding both Bucky’s wrists in a firm grasp. He squeezes.

“Steve?”

He can see the vague outline of a relived smile. “Yeah. Yeah--you were, you were rocking back and forth, Buck. Crying. It”

“Sorry for waking you.” He blurts, snatching one hand back to wipe it roughly over his cheeks. His face is wet. His throat is burning; voice coming out as a croak. He massages his Adam’s Apple with two fingers; he’s shaking. He’s shaking.

“It’s okay.” Steve says quietly. He shifts, moving so he’s sat side by side with him. Belatedly he realizes Steve still has a grip on his nearest wrist as a grounding force. Bucky relaxes his legs, stretching them out in front of them both. His back and neck aches the same as it did when they forced thehis gums aren’t bleeding. They didn’t. No one did. Not for months now. He does a quick scan of the perimeter - how long had he been stuck inside his own head? He wasn’t asleep…?

Hewas he on watch? _Motherfucker. Not good. It's happening - it's happening._

Steve asks his new catchphrase. “You alright?”

“m…m’fine.”

“_Buck_.” There’s a lot more stress on the word there.

“Really. I’m just--homesick. Miss the city, you know?”

Steve looks away - Bucky glances at him without moving his head - Steve’s squeezing his eyes shut as if to gain strength. “Okay.” He pushes out; clawed out despite his reservations. The reservations reer anyway. “No. No, actually, it’s not. Talk to me.”

Bucky closes his eyes this time, in resignation; not in strength. He pushes deeper into his throat. Steve catches his hand abruptly to stop him; Bucky shakes both arms off and stands - arcing his neck.

“Buck” Steve protests.

“I’m justI’m okay.” Bucky assures him because he can’t do anything else. “I’m just working through some stuff.”

“You don’t have to work through it alone. I’m right here. We do this stuff together - we always have.”

“I know.” He says after a moment, because he does, and only because Steve’s made that clear to him seven hundred and fifty something times. He means well but really - he really needs to stop. He’ll talk _when_ and_ if_ he’s ready to. “I’m gonna’ do a quick patrol and finish up my watch. Go back to sleep, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t go back to sleep. Instead Steve orders him quite sharply that he’ll take over watch early.

“It’s Morita’s day.”

“Not anymore. You haven’t slept in three fucking days, Bucky. Go to bed. I’m fuckin’ serious for once.”

He watches Steve steadily for a moment, moonlight glancing off his face - but the muscles of it and not the old bones. “Fine.”

He crawls into Steve’s abandoned bedroll, turns on his side. He wonders if he can make it a fourth day.

“Go to fucking sleep.” Steve says, like the punk can read his mind.

“I can’t when you’re raggin’ on me.” He bites out. “Shut up. I’m tryin' here.”

Steve half grunts behind his back.

His hand clenches into his palm, letting his nails dig in, stopping only when he feels like something might crack soon. _Don’t be stupid, you’re not strong enough that you can break bone._

His eyelids clog with sleep, exhausted, and he fades. As he drifts off he hears the shuffle of fabric rolled out, then smells the scent he recognizes as himself as the blanket from his own bedroll it settled over his shoulder, and a canteen is settled a foot away from his head for the morning. The shadow of the metal blurs further until his eyes are closed - and a soft hand threads it’s way through Bucky’s hair for a moment.

It’s really nice.

. . .

“I had third watch Cap.” Jim comments when they wake.

Steve shrugs, for once looking believable. “Couldn’t sleep - knew I wouldn’t for the rest of the night so figured I’d let the rest of you,” here he looks pointedly at Bucky, “get more shut-eye.”

“Oh alright, I’ll take tonight then.”

“Everything alright, Cap?” Dugan asks as he pulls out his K-Ration - it’s a cold breakfast today. “There any reason you couldn’t?”

“Nightmare.” Steve says, or more admits. “The type that keeps you up.”

Bucky finds himself looking up from his knees in surprise. He’d just presumed that his noise had woken Steve. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He replies with a look that says _‘you don’t have the monopoly on nightmares, jerk-off’ _\- even if what happened last night technically wasn’t a nightmare. He was awake for it. Steve follows that with another look that says, _‘see, its not so terrible to talk about them, or even admit to them’_ as Gabe says:

“Sorry to hear it, Cap.”

All of them are used to the occasional one; some more than others.

Dugan cracks open his chopped ham and egg tin first; and instead of meat the smell of liquid cabbage sludge invades down his nostrils. His stomach clenches and he quickly and subtly swallows back vomit - throat feeling clogged with the smell and taste.

The rest of them crack open theirs, but Bucky opens his wax box only to retrieve the energy tablet from it. He doesn’t touch the canvas bag still supplied with German food. He swallows it down quickly with a generous amount of water. His entire throat pulses - and_ Christ no, he can’t handle anything going down it today. No. No way._ He’d forgotten but remembers now; the feel of the jaw guard clamping on his gums, _the crank crank crank _as the guard twisted the screw to pry open his teeth. He remembers crying - panicking like he forgot how to do - and begging them to give him another chance -_ no he’ll eat, he will. I’m sorry, I promise. I promise I promise I promise I’ll eat I’lleati’lleati’lleat._ Then the metal tube, cutting into his throat; his head held right the way back so it would go in straight - down down down - and later the rubber tube bigger than his nostril through his mouth instead. He remembers the sound of the funnel screwing onto the other end, of the tube swelling and thickening as it was filled; the feel of the cabbage sludge flooding into his belly.

_Science ha__s_ _deprived us of the right to die__, he’d thought._

_Ominous shivers _ _take the_ _body. __‘Be careful — you’ll choke,’ shout__s__ the doctor in _ _his_ _ear_,_ the first time__._

_After the fourth time, on the table - he’d asked Zola: “ Isn’t there any other way of tying a person up._ _That thing looks like— ‘_

_‘Yes, I know,’ he _ _replied__,__ almost_ _gently._

_A shroud._

They used to leave him, jaw and mouth clamped open, tube shifting down the line to his stomach, until it digested to make sure he didn’t make himself throw up.

“Sarge. You coming?”

He glances up, takes the hand Jones offers. Nods.

“You ate quick. Didn’t even see you chewing.”

“Yeah.” He says, “guess I was hungry.”

“Man,” Jones says, swinging himself under Bucky’s arm and herding them to the truck to do the supply check: “you’re always hungry.”

“Yeah.” He agrees again. Not today.

“Hey,” Jones notes, looking sideways at him; the lays the back of his hand against the side of Bucky’s throat. He jerks out from under the arm. “Sorry,” the private says easily, “you just feel a bit warmer than usual. You aren’t getting sick on us are you?”

“No.” Bucky says, knowing only that he doesn’t feel cold anymore. “I’m not getting sick.”

. . .

“Can I tell you something?” Steve asks as they walk, falling into step with him. Falsworth has first position today, then Dugan - so they’re not breaking formation.

“Well sure. You can ‘tell me’ anything you want”

“I mean tell you something you’ll listen to.”

Bucky huffs, then scoffs, and hikes his pack higher on his shoulders. His throat is painfully dry - but he tried to drink from his canteen earlier and that same texture slithered in; and the tube swelled. He hasn’t eaten all day, hasn’t drank anything since his energy pill this morning. He feels the cold encroaching on his bones again. “This isn’t another one of your games is it?” He asks with forced humour.

“No.” Steve says, “just…something ma told me once. I think...I think it’s kind of appropriate for what's going on with you right now.”

“You don’t know what’s going on with me right now.” Bucky notes, instead of saying _‘there’s nothing going on with me right now.’_ There see: he’s not _entirely_ in denial.

“I know what you’re doing at least. Or what you’re trying to do.”

“And what, pray tell; oh lordly philosopher, am I trying to do?”

“Not feel. For starters.” Steve throws back, point-fucking-blank, straight away. Bucky turns, opens his mouth - Steve holds up a hand and says: “Just listen.”

Bucky looks away but nods, only; only because it’s a pearl of Sarah Rodger’s wisdom, and not one of Steve’s. Because Sarah was, is and always will be, underestimated for how incredible perceptive and profound she could be. He does it out of respect for Steve’s mama. “What?” He says shortly.

“That, that this is what life is. Fear, rage, desire; love. To stop feeling emotions, to stop wanting to feel them - is to feel…well, death.”

Eloquent as always, Steve Rodgers was. It probably came out much more powerful when it came out of Sarah’s lips. He’s ridiculous. Bucky is both annoyed and fond in a corny way despite the maudlin subject.

“Very poetic.” Is all he says shortly in response.

Steve shakes his head, frustrated. After a moment he says; “You should eat. You get grumpy when you don’t.”

“I know that already, thank you.”

“So eat something.” Steve says, and something vaguely dense; probably hard crusty bread, drops into his pocket. _So fix it_, Bucky hears, _and he’s trying. He’s trying for fuck-sake, he’s trying._

. . .

“He’s not trying to argue with you, you know.”

“You’re breaking formation.” Bucky tells him right off.

“Chill out, would you?”

“Not when you’re breaking formation.”

The commando at his side rolls his eyes, and repeats his first statement anyway.

“I know he’s not, I’m not either. Just to put that energy out in the world.”

“Okay…I just think--”

“I know what you think. You don’t need to tell me again. Same as he doesn’t need to tell me again.”

Dugan raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought you weren’t arguing?”

Bucky growls in frustration; exasperated beyond words. “I’m not. I don’t enjoy it, trust me - but it’s getting old.”

“What is?”

He looks away, pretending to look for enemies in the trees. Dugan whacks him on the arm.

“No come on, what is?”

“Him…him not listening. I think_ I _know what's going on with me more than anyone else does, so it’d be nice for _people_ to consider that I know what is and isn’t better for me.”

“Notdon’t hit me for thisbut not if your judgments warped.”

Bucky nearly does hit him. “What happened to not saying a single word about it, huh?” He snaps. “And it’s _not warped_.”

“You talked to me about it first, Barnes, it goes both ways”

Bucky growls; walks off, breaking formation even more. Steve doesn’t call him on it today, way up ahead in first position now when he turns round. He does give Dugan some eyes; who immediately returns to his original posting.

“Not going to hold this one against me too, are you?” Dugan calls behind him.

“Haven’t decided yet!” He returns, already knowing he won’t. He’s just frustrated, and too tired to actually construct a new grudge let alone hold onto it.

. . .

With no warning Steve throws his shield; and a enemy sniper falls out the trees ahead, right before his finger presses on the trigger.

_Fucking see! This is why they need to stay in formation and paying fucking attention, Dum Dum, you moustached bastard._

. . .

He’s never liked fighting with Steve; probably the same amount Steve hates fighting with him - who, when he thinks about it - probably hates it more. Bucky knows he tends to go silent and stubborn; likes to hold a grudge and make people _work_ for an apology - which isn’t his best trait, he’ll admit - but Steve tends to burn hot and quick. His anger doesn’t fade, exactly, but it does fizzle; and then return in a loud hash-out of emotions to settle it.

Very rarely has Steve ever used his own approach against him; but it has happened - once. Once in particular. That’s how Bucky knows it’s rough from the other side.

It started when he’d admitted, scared and quiet, about his ma getting sick. Bucky remembers the warm sun on his face, and the grass tickling at his back, and the sound of Becca pretending she was cooler than she was down the way. Remembers the way he’d sat up from sunbathing, his arms stretched out behind his head moving to support him; right before their tiny little world in Brooklyn began to crash around them.

_“You against all that now?” he continues, “no one’s good enough for the magniloquent saint that is Steven Grant Rodgers, huh?”_

_He smiles at the sky, entertained by himself. There isn’t an answer. He frowns, lifting his head when Steve still doesn’t react to the tease. “Steve?” He asks - then see’s Steve’s eyes are lowered, his eyelashes long and dark against his cheeks - he looks immensely sad suddenly. Bucky sits up. “What’s the matter?”_

_Steve swallows, then sighs. “I-I don’t have time for that right now.”_

_“Why?” Bucky demands, knowing there’s more to it. “What’s the matter?”_

_Steve swallows, looks him in the eye and says: “Ma’s sick.”_

_“Okay.” Bucky replies after a moment, taking it in stride. “I can get my ma to make her dumpling soup again and bring it over to--”_

_“Not” Steve licks his lips, “not my kinda’ sick. The coming and going, I meanI mean sick, Buck. I think it’s TB."_

_TB._

_“This isn’t a problem you can solve.” Steve says._

_“Well….um…” He’s lost for words for a moment. “Well, what can I do?”_

_It’s such a lame question. Such a lame response. A lame everything. His best friend knows it too. Steve’s expression breaks into a heart-broken laugh. Steve, voice quiet and cracking up says: “I don’t know.”_

_Sarah goes to the sanatorium the next month. She has a permanent bed by two. Steve writes letters to her out in Jersey every two days; he sometimes sees her every month or so - but it’s rare. She doesn’t want him coming - out of the danger _ ** _ **for ** _ ** _him, and of him seeing _ ** _ **her ** _ ** _as she gets worse. He came back red-eyed and silent last time; with remnants of tears cried for a long time on his cheekbones._

_It says a lot even if Steve doesn’t say much, because Steve very much is not one for crying. Especially when he stays quiet when Bucky meets him on the platform off the train. They’ve got a hot date tonight listening to The Mercury Theatre on Air; Bucky’s booked the family radio for the slot for the occasion - predicting Steve might need the company. And there’s nothing more like company than a family of six in a small cluttered apartment - especially his loud as balls family._

_“How was she?” Bucky asks later._

_“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Bucky.” He says, and leaves to get a glass of water before their radio show starts. Becca kicks him several times in the back of the head._

_“What-is-wrong-with-you?” She whispers._

_“It was just a question.” Bucky defends when he can hear Jenna talking at Steve in the kitchen, so he knows his pal won’t hear. “I want to know. I’m worried about her.”_

_“So? Its his...” She shakes her head, and then the sentence off. “Jesus. Pick your moments, asshole. You have fucking terrible timing. You always have.”_

_“Shut the hell up Becca.” He bites back, annoyed._

_“You shut the hell up, you--”_

_“Children.” His pa calls as he strolls past the doorway. “You are old enough now that I should not have to threaten to come in there. Tie it up. Put a bow on it.”_

_“She’s the one being a--” He stops when his pa clears his throat at the same time as Steve reenters the room. He stops and looks between the two of them, on the couch and on the floor in front of it._

_“Problem?”_

_Bucky crosses his arms, turns his back on his sister. “Nothing,” He mumbles. “It’s nothing.”_

_Steve, already a half a year behind in work, drops out of school in January when all of Sarah’s savings dry up. _

_ He takes a job at a printing house near the Bridge, Bucky takes more hours waiting tables at the waterfront for the tourists, going on dates, and avoiding his parent’s apartment - then more after he graduates. He doesn’t get his scholarship - he maybe throws a chair when he finds out - and his pa makes him sit down, relax, take a drink out of the decanter he has to pretend he’s never drank from before (which he does, badly) and remind him that: “he’s young. As young as a buck, ha, you see what I did there - ‘cause your name is--”_

_“I saw what you did pop, you’re hilarious.” He says dully._

_“I know I am.” His pa replies easily. “You got your mouth from your mother but your sense of humour from me.”_

_“If you mean your shittin' puns that make me want to throw my shoes at you, that's not a good thing!” His ma calls from the other room, whose still feeling sore about the fight they got into last night. His pa didn't exactly play nice this time._

_“Those exact ones!” He shouts back, "And it's your mouth that gets us in trouble, not my jokes!" _

_Bucky closes his eyes, sighing through his nose. "Guys. Can you not--"_

_"Right." His pa says, "sorry." Then returns his gaze to his stewing son. He makes him drink. “You’re young. You’ve got time.”_

_“You wanted me to--”_

_“It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s what you want.” His pa interrupts. “It is what you want, right? You’re not just doing it--”_

_“No I…I want it. A lot.” He replies, “that’s not what I…” Bucky looks away, bouncing his leg. _

_His pa’s hand stalls the movement. “Hey. You don’t need to make me proud with a college spot, kiddo, I’m already proud as hell of you.”_

_“But I haven’t done anything to--”_

_“You don’t_ ** _** need** _ ** _to do anything. There’s more important things than…class rankings and that lot - which I might remind you, you were in the top two, don’t you forget. Things like the kind of person you are. Attitude,” he taps Bucky three times on the temple,” is more important than smarts - though,” he admits when Bucky glances at him sideways, “you do have the smarts in you. I know who you are; you’re my kind, happy-go-lucky boy who has nothing he needs to prove to noone, you understand? Take a minute, take a breath. You can try again. Alright? Now stop throwing my chairs around the house, you nearly broke your mother’s birthday present last year.”_

_“That’d probably be a good thing.” Bucky says, half-echoing his mother, who snorts and then blurts out laughing mid-pillowcase-fold. His father whacks him on the leg. “It’s really ugly.” He tells him frankly, “just cause you’re funny doesn’t mean you have taste.”_

_Steve doesn’t graduate until nearly the year after when his ma makes it her _ ** _ **dying wish** _**_that he finish; which means - well, that he_ **_**has to**_**_. Go fucking Sarah, you tell the little asshole. Luckily Father Matthews likes him - so puts a good word in with the board and lets him come in near every evening in May, June and July and then back in September._

_They barely see each other. The closest he gets to him now is when Steve comes to sit beside the Barnes’ on the pews, and kneels with them at prayer - which is almost an incentive to go to church, honestly. Bucky misses him._

_He hears about the dreadful fights Steve starts with the worst of the worst instead of being a part of them - and by the time he gets a moment to storm over there - the swellings already started to go down. He knows it may take a while until Steve agrees, the stubborn prideful ass that he is, so Bucky decides to hog-tie him until he agrees to move in together early._

_Steve says no. He’s got it handled._

_Predictable bastard. Bucky should have gone to the bookies and put money on it._

_“I didn’t say you didn’t. I just thought--”_

_“No. I’m fine.”_

_He leaves to go to one of his catch-up classes. _

_Bucky sighs. “You are not listening to a word I’m saying.” He tells the empty air, because Steve’s not. _

_This idea, this move of Bucky’s - it’s not about looking after Steve; it’s not really that at all honestly, despite what Steve thinks - it’s for Bucky too. He wants out and he wants in with Steve-o. He’s been thinking about getting a place for years - away from his parents - and it’s never been a one-man plan whenever he’s thought about it. Not once._

_Steve visits Sarah one last time in June, and where Steve keeps up his litany of scheduled letters; the responding ones do not. They get less and less - and one even comes back with a faint cough splatter of smudged blood; where it looks like someone’s tried to rub it out after they realized they’d run out of paper to rewrite with._

_Steve goes on a rag. _

_“What’s the point of her being there if it’s not helping her!” He shouts into the ceiling of his mama’s apartment. “I should go get her - bring her home.”_

_“Not a good idea, pal.” Bucky says from the couch, work shirt unbuttoned from between his split shift. He found a hot moment to come over - and boy did he pick his moment. Steve was ready, steaming and practically waiting for him. He threw the letter like a Frisbee at Bucky’s head and demanded what he thought about it. _

_“Oh, and what would you goddamn know about it!” He barks back at Bucky. “So smart he aces his classes and he thinks he’s a doctor,” Steve snaps across the room, talking about Bucky in the third person. “An expert in all things - even without a fucking college place to play off.”_

_Bucky matches his stare. “You know what.” He answers stiffly.“ I’m going to let that_ **_**one** _**_go out of the kindness of my heart - because I know you don’t mean it.”_

_“I do.” Steve snaps just as quick._

_“Okay.” Bucky just says._

_“I should probably apologize.” Steve admits later when he’s calmed down and finally stopped pacing and yelling. He’s slumped back on the couch so they’re a matching set, the old mostly broken radio splutters Danny Kaye quietly on the mantle. Steve’s waited not ten minutes until he has to leave for his evening shift to do this._

_Bucky’s lips quirk upwards. “Probably huh?” _

_Steve hums. “Probably.” He agrees, then admits: “Again.” Because it’s not the first time he’s blown up at Bucky like this when he doesn’t mean it; and vice versa. Bucky’s temper was more last year or the year before. This is Steve’s year - coming later than the rest even if he’s not getting any taller. The moment holds._

_Bucky turns his head to look at him, lips still quirked. “You gonna?”_

_Steve just hums again. Bucky doesn’t stifle his laugh as he gets up, re-buttoning his shirt to a respectable level. He didn’t get the word that starts with s, but then again it doesn’t need to be heard for him to know it it’s been sent out into the world._

_“Have a good shift!” Steve calls as he opens the door. Bucky spin-salutes him on his way out._

_Sarah dies before Autumn starts._

_Sarah has a small, affordable funeral - in that’s how it’s planned - but not how it turns out. Double, maybe even triple are the mourners that turn up - some of them friends, some congregation, some previous patients who are consciously respectful as they cough into their handkerchiefs at the back. Steve doesn’t seem to see any of them - doesn’t seem aware whatsoever how many people’s lives his mama’s sole life touched. _

_Bucky looses his new office job because he skips out early for the funeral anyway after they refuse to give him the time off - but he doesn’t care. Because of that he’s late - so he ends up at the back._

_When the dirt begins to pile onto the coffin in heavy shovelfuls Bucky steps even further back to allow Steve some privacy to mourn and make the appropriate words to the attending priest - and then suddenly he’s gone before Bucky’s parents can offer Steve a ride back. _

_When he finds him he asks again. Steve says no. Bucky tells him ‘too bad, I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.’_

_“You really can’t do anything about it.” He declares after. “Sorry.” _

_Where Steve’s sorrys are hard won, Bucky’s are easily given - but that also means he doesn’t always mean them like Steve does. He doesn’t mean this one at all. _

_Steve squeezes his arm, a soft look on his face, and lets him in; and is a lot more open with him for a while after that. Bucky reckons that ‘end of the line’ comment was a damn fucking good choice to come out with. He doesn’t stop trying._

_“Move in with me.” _

_“No.”_

_He huffs. And again, “I found a place”_

_“And I told you no. I’ve got a place. Here. Would you let it go?”_

_This time Bucky says no. No he will not._

_How many times is the charm?_

_“Come on, don’t be a lug.” He’s practically whining now, and probably more than a little tipsy. Freddie McCallister's pop started a backyard business of knock-off liquor a couple of months ago, and the guy convinced Bucky to experiment and be their guinea pig after his shift. "I'm <strike> "</strike> _

_“More than a little trashed - is what you are. Can you even get up right now?”_

_Is 80% proof a real thing, because he reckons he’s found it. He’s on his back on the floorboards - the room is spinning and he most definitely _ ** _ **definitely** _**_is not getting up and eating Steve’s eggs. It’s a terrible idea._

_Steve looks very sorely disappointed in him, but also like he’s trying not to laugh at the pitiful form he makes on the floor. _ _“You're the lug - an annoying lug. Knock it off, I'm not in the mood for this, right now.”_

_"You're never in the mood for it anytime, for, for **anything** anymore." He says before he can help it, dramatizing the word in the middle like he's in the centrepiece of a theatre play. Steve's face crumples, and turns his back so Bucky can't see it._

_"You know why I'm not. So stop, I" Steve breaks off, unable to finish. His voice sounds barely an inch from cracking. "You know why I'm not in the mood...you just know. So stop."_

_Steve misses his ma something fierce, and the fact that she's laid to rest next to his long dead pop doesn't make it any better, much as Steve probably thought it would. He's alone in this apartment, surrounded by her ghost, with barely the means to go on, and though he won't admit it, Bucky can see he's lonely. "I'm just tryin', tryin' ta' help. It ain't...ain't good, pal."_

_"Neither is your argument."_

_He groans, loudly, then bangs his foot on the floorboard. Someone hits the ceiling below them with with the end of a broom. He bangs his foot three times back in the same spot. _

_Steve kicks his ankle. “Would you stop pissing Mr Porter off? I’ve got to make my milk orders with him, you know?”_

_Alright, new argument. Petty is his new game._

_“Ah! There, ssee! You know how you can get out of that - if he…if he ‘idn’t live below you anymore! Know how you can do that?”_

_“Let me guess,” Steve says flatly, crossing his arms over the wooden spoon he’s holding. “By moving in with you.”_

_Bucky spikes a victorious finger at him. “Egg-xactly."_

_Steve rolls his eyes heavenward, and threatens to dump the egg-tastic eggs he’s making on Bucky’s head. _

_“But Why not?”_

_“You know why not.” _

_Because it would mean leaving Sarah's home, even as small and cramped, and leaking as it is. The whole building needs to be knocked down, probably; the electricity flickers, the pipes are constantly getting blocked, half the window latches are broken and drafty on near every floor, and you'd be one lucky sod if you managed to getting the heating running all through winter. The communal showers are infested with all sorts of mould Bucky never lets himself think about, and if it weren't for Sarah's stringent daily bleaching; the apartment would likely be overrun by cockroaches. He's heard they have them again downstairs. Bucky's old apartment used to **spawn** mice every couple of months, which they could never find, and probably only left because the Barnes never had any cheese for them to steal. Luckily one thing Steve did pick up from his ma, if not her cooking, was her over-the-top mopping when he has the energy for it. The only reason the damn building is still running is cause noone cares about those in the worst-of-the-worst blocks, and the landlord has half a dozen buildings dotted about the city, and friends in the housing departments. No tenant can afford to go to town with tenants rights when the only lawyer they can afford is a free one when repairs don't get repaired. It was bad when Bucky's family had to move in after the Crash, and a decade on it certainly hasn't improved._

_“But it’d be so great. You’re a stubborn bast’rd. He’s a nosy fucker. Won’t it be great to get away from his daily broom tangos?”_

_Steve ignores him, and then ignores the broom tango Mr Porter starts up again below as he always does whenever he deems them as being too loud, which is all the time. It’s like walking on eggshells, and it’s been like that for close to a decade. He needs to get Steve out of this stupid apartment._

_“Please.” Bucky says now, to see if that will work. It doesn’t._

_He resorts to poking Steve in the leg, bugging him the same way he succeeded in making him his best pal. Steve pours water on his head, then steps over his spluttering self to eat his eggs. Bucky rolls to his feet, coughing, committed to his new move - then gulps sharply and has to run for the bathroom._

_“Serves you right!” Steve calls from the other room as he brings up a day’s worth of food, and then two days worth; and then doesn’t get back up afterwards. He thinks he’s just - just gonna lie here over the ceramic._

_The clink of a glass settling on the tiles next to his leg sounds out, and the feeling of a small shadow falling onto his back spells out too. “It’s been near half an hour. You good to get up yet?”_

_Bucky grunts, shakes his head - starts dry-retching again at the jarring. Oh god. _

_“Yikes, okay.” He hears Steve say, and then his small spindly hand is rubbing circles on Bucky’s back. “Take it easy pal.”_

_“Don’t thinkI think ‘ere was mo-ore than just… al-ca-ca-ohol in ‘hat mix.” He slurs out._

_“Oh yeah?” _

_Bucky swallows, dryly. Then nods. His stomach surges up again - and splatters new vomit all over Steve’s dingy toilet. “Sorr’r’e.” He slurs. _

_“It’s fine. There’s bread and water by your foot when you’re ready. In your own time.”_

_Bucky hums out an “oh”; manages to turn his head sideways with his eyes closed at least. “T’ats nice of you.”_

_“Yeah, I can pretty a pretty nice guy on occasion.”_

_“The nicest.” Bucky agrees. It’s even nicer because Bucky _ ** _ **knows** _**_that the slices of bread that must be by his feet are Steve’s _**_**last ** _ ** _pieces of bread - and the pieces of bread he was planning on lasting on throughout the day tomorrow. He doesn’t have the money for more._

_“Oh just” Steve breaks off, embarrassed. He’s probably bright red. “Shut up, Bucky.”_

_He throws up again. Steve’s hand rubs his back. He mumbles, “’kay,” then: “You ‘no ho’ you ‘an be evenerner nicecerer?”_

_“How?” Steve asks patiently, then realizes: “don’t say--”_

_“’ou moving in with me.”_

_“You,” Steve declares, “need another party line.”_

_“N-uh.”_

_Steve sighs behind him._

_Later Bucky finds out that Steve ‘strolled’ (more like stomped) his way to the McCallister’s and demanded to know ‘what the fuck they put in the booze’ and then - when he finds out it was rophy and a smattering of cocaine demands: “ what the hell they think they’re doing giving that shit to people!” Giving that shit to Bucky without telling him in particular. He gets punched for it. A lot. But he threw down first - even if he didn’t get the first hit in._

_“You didn’t need to do that.” He says, after **finally** being able to crawl back upright after three days of puking and blurred surroundings. He hasn't been home in four days. He wonders if his parents have noticed._

_“And you don’t need to keep bugging me about moving. Are you gonna stop?”_

_“Well...no.” Bucky admits._

_“Then I’m not gonna stop getting involved when someone spikes you with shit that puts you down and keeps you down for half the week. It’s dangerous. It could have killed you.”_

_“Bit dramatic.” Bucky notes._

_Steve crosses his arms, “Coming from the guy who _ _egged Mr Flosser's house after he cheesed you off by giving you a half-score on your test."_

_"He also failed you out."_

_"And **you** also mooned him when he came to the window with the light on. The only reason he didn't recognise it was you was because of that stupid hat and the fact that he didn't recognise your ass cheeks."_

_"You helped." Bucky reminds him, and Steve has to take that, because he did. Mr Flosser had had it out for him for years, so it hadn't taken much convincing. He had tackled Bucky into a bush when he pulled down his trousers though._

_"Not the point I'm making."_

_“Meh. You love me really.”_

_Steve doesn’t deny it._

_“Move in with me.” He says, _ ** _ **again:** _ ** _ “we’ll put cushions in the floor for the first week, eat off cardboard - take a place by the Heights; or the docks - or anywhere. Just not here. You need to get out of this apartment.” They’re eighteen and Steve, quite frankly, is not living the way he should be right now. He’s not really living at all right now. Things are not good. “_**_**Come on** _ ** _.”_

_Steve says, once more: “I can get by on my own.”_

_Bucky, frustrated now because this is way past the sixth time, somehow decides to fucking say: “You can’t actually.”_

_Steve rears back, then snarls at him - and him back and back. Steve’s accent gets stronger when he’s upset, so Bucky knows he’s really done it this time by actually putting the words to Steve’s always silent paranoia. It goes on for a bit. Finally he has Steve’s sort of agreement at the end, until he shouts: “You haven’t eaten in two days you, dumb fuck. You trying to starve like------”_

_He swallows his words sharply. _

_Steve looks at him levelly - but the damage is already done. Oh shit, no. He doesn’t clock him one like Bucky’s expecting._

_“Like ma?” He asks flatly instead, and when Bucky doesn’t answer: “That’s what you were gonna say, wasn’t it? Am I tryna starve myself like I starved ma till she was too weak to fend it off?”_

_Very rarely has he seen Steve’s anger cool so quickly and icily._

_Bucky opens his mouth, has to take a moment. “That’s not what I meant.”_

_“Yes it was.” He intones, hard, back - walks off. Oh no. Oh no no no_

_“Steve”_

_“**Stay away from me**!”_

_He slams the door in Bucky’s face. When Bucky tries to climb in the window after finding he can’t jiggle the doorknob, Steve’s locked that too - and when Bucky’s banging on it enough to give himself a migraine Steve opens it long enough to throw a rock at him. Then he shoves him into the metal of the fire-escape. With the luck of a saint Bucky is able to catch himself on the railing before he tumbles down the narrow stairway - that shove a lot stronger than he thought Steve capable of. The catch clicks shut and the curtains are drawn when he gets to his feet again._

_“Screw off!” Is the only thing Steve deigns to say to Bucky for near two weeks._

_Even Father Matthews intercepts him on Steve’s behalf when he tries to corner him after Mass._

_“Yeah, later.” He says to the priest distractedly until the man snaps:_

_“James!” At him for the first time and drags him by the sleeve out of the aisle. By the time Bucky’s got his hand _ ** _ **off ** _ ** _his wrinkled shirt Steve has disappeared. He wants to throw something even more after he has to sit, or stand, through a conversation on ‘grief’ and ‘blah blah blah blah blah.’ _

_“You don’t understand, James.”_

_He scoffs, and repeats Steve’s words a couple of months ago. “What would you know about it? You don’t know what I know.”_

_“Have you ever lost someone, James?” Matthews asks frankly, knowing it’s a no. “Then you can’t. Leave young Mr Rodgers alone, he wants time on his own to grieve his loss. Just because it’s not the way you think he should do it does not mean it’s wrong.”_

_“I’m just trying to help<strike> "</strike>_

_“You’re not.” Matthews says. “Helping that is.”_

_Bucky nearly tells him right then and there to fuck right off._

_That night he lies in bed and says to the ceiling - “Am I fucking this up Sarah? I feel like I’m fucking this up. I just…I don’t know what else to do - I get that it’s not a problem I can just solve but…fuck. I don’t know. Fuck. I’m sorry Sarah. I’m supposed to be better than this. I’m sorry.”_

_This sorry - this sorry he means._

_He swallows his pride - and though it hurts - he gives Steve space._

_Another a week; three weeks and three days after their fight - Steve comes to his door with a broken nose, one hell of a fat lip and what may be a cracked cheekbone - something Bucky doubts he’s ever going to admit to. He’s got a surly expression on his face, and his voice is slightly slurred with swelling when he speaks._

_“Fine.” He says, very pointedly. He walks away, and over his shoulder says: “Not the heights.”_

_“You want ice?” Bucky calls after him._

_And Steve snarks: “Not from you.”_

_Bucky grins._

He’s not trying to fight - he’s really not - but it’s difficult when Steve treats him like he’s two seconds away from splintering into pieces (even if he is) and not listening to him when he doesn’t handle something the way Steve would handle it.

_Oh._ That was kind of the point Father Matthews was trying to make all those years ago - wasn’t it? He should probably start listening to the priests.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: 20th MARCH 1944

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

[CENSOR STAMP -** REDACTED]**

TO: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS FROM: REBECCA BARNES  
189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON SENDERS ADDRESS:  
3421 45 HILLREST ST.  
NEW JERSEY

DATE: 11th MARCH 1944

* * *

_Watch your tone, Steve. I’ll talk however I damn well please, so don’t tell me what to do. And I won’t - with the Bucky thing - I know I can be a bitch but I’m not that much of a bitch. _

_I figured you lot were all busy saving the free world for him to write and he wasn’t great at it to begin with; but seein’ as you’re worried. I’ll send him a bell to check in - see if I can get him to blab._

_Enough about my brother - you good? _**[****BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK]**_ and _**[BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK]**._ How’s the big burly muscles? Is it scary there? That’s probably a stupid question._

_Becca_

* * *

. . .

One thing he’s always wanted was for Steve to be hale and healthy so he could live his life to the fullest - and even more so now that he has a more solid, clearer idea of just how unhappy Steve was before. The serum, for Steve - quite literally saved his life. This is not something that Bucky doubts, or considers otherwise; it’s a certainty. And so he feels so guilty in the few moments that he does wish the serum away from Steve. He feels so so so guilty to be thinking against it, because anytime he wishes it away it means he’s wishing away Steve’s health; his chance at a long life with a family and kids, _and fuckin’ grandkids, man_. It means he’s wishing away all of that but - there are moments.

There are moments - just as there are moments where he goes back in his head and in his memories; and he changes them, like he tries to change his dreams so they stay peaceful; his own personal time machine where he just…

He likes to see what would have happened if he said this instead of that, or if he didn’t go to that party, or if he didn’t take that extra shift when Steve was taken under by stomach ulcers again in 38’, or how if he didn’t buy that fuckin’ round of drinks he could have bought a fish at the market; and then maybe Steve’s pernicious anemia wouldn’t be rearing it’s stupid head and he’d stop getting dizzy all the time.

He changes other things in his head too; he doesn’t disrespect his ma that time, or he does where in real life he didn’t but wanted to. He tells his pa about that man he saw sneaking out of the bedroom at 5am, and breaks the promise he made. When they escape again, on their thirty ninth day in the lab; he and Andrew are not idiots. They take the uniforms off the Hydra guards, and pretend to search the compound for themselves like a big joke; full hoods and goggles on their faces, until they disappear to another wing and walk right out the door. One thing he never changes is the night they had together, though sometimes he changes other memories before that so they started earlier than real-life - merging and melding the memory so it creates other new ones.

In his time-machine he gives them more time together, gives them a little more happiness before it ends.

His little time-machine makes it more difficult to discern real memories from the fake ones, but it’s something. His pa once said, about being a solider, about killing another human being; or even an animal - that you had to be able to close something off in yourself to find the willpower to do it. He thinks that’s true, definitely, completely - but it’s not the only way to cope. Steve’s found a method to get past his problems; it’s the same as when his body was unhealthy and now when it isn’t; by not focusing on the things in the past that he can’t change.

Bucky doesn’t do that. He copes by changing the stupid things in his life; _just to see_, and the changes help him focus on them and not on the rest of his insides that he allows to close up like his pa said - he helps the happier days peak through more often.

He’s coping - and sometimes…sometimes he feels like he’s winning.

. . .

When they were in _Mont-de-Marsan_ way back when on their first expedition to Europe, and their second time in France - he picked up a notebook the perfect size to slot in the pocket on his chest. Steve has one too - but it’s smaller and already tattered with drawings and rain - not ‘new’ like Bucky’s.

It’s where he keeps Steve’s drawing, folded and tucked in safe in the pages.

(There had been cheaper cardboard ones and fancy leather ones from the turned over market stall he’d taken it from, and after a moments deliberation he’d picked one of the expensive snazzy ones with a pattern punched into the leather of the spine.)

He hasn’t had a notebook like this since he graduated high-school and his ma and pop had got it for him special both as a congratulations; but also to use in his first term of college. He wasn’t in yet, and actually didn’t get in until nearly three years later, so he’d told pop exactly that. His father had just laughed, clapped him on the back and said he knew he’d get in; _that he had faith._

Four months later; when he’d gone full time at the docks instead his pa had come home and said: _“You __can__ use it, you know? For writing or for doodling, like Steve does.”_

_“Steve draws, not doodles, pa. And he does it on the corners of newspapers and napkins.”_

_Steve drew on anything he could find. Paper was expensive, proper sketchbooks even more. He wasn’t in on the art scholarship he applied for yet, starting in the New Year, but he would find out soon._

_“But I’m okay. I’ll wait.” He’d said._

When the letter had finally come his pop was still bursting with pride for him; the first Barnes to get a college education, it didn’t matter how long it took. Ma had re-wrapped and then re-gifted the notebook to him, laughing.

It’s one of the last memories he has of them smiling together.

He uses this one for math, and sometimes does doodle, but his doodles tend towards designs for new scopes that he’ll never show to Stark simply so the man doesn’t have the chance to rip them apart. The math is comforting, and rhythmic; like a dance he knows the answer to again, and it gives him something to ground himself with when his knives and pistols have already been cleaned. His and Dernier’s lighters are a another method of focus and fun, a new hobby. It feels like home with each equation. One moment he’s sat in the Polish countryside and then with another he’s sat at their rickety old table or braced against the window sill in his and Steve’s Red-hook apartment, doing homework in his ‘old’ notebook, or sat staring at the chalkboard in a drafty lecture-hall.

“What you writing?” Steve asks, dropping down beside him while they’re waiting for the coffee to boil. Bucky glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not writing, technically.”

Steve leans over and sticks his nose in to see for himself, reading the familiar scrawl of Bucky’s handwriting.

“Curvature of the earth,” he reads, then looks at Bucky, eyes boggled. “Wait, are you doing math? To aim?”

Bucky glances at his notes that look nothing like the textbook he learnt them from, but they make sense. To him at least. He’s never liked showing his work - would rather jump straight to the answer. “Well yeah.” He answers, maybe a little obviously, and passes the notebook half to Steve so he can see clearer. He licks his finger and holds it up to test the wind.

“A - C” Steve reads, taking the book in one hand so they’re sharing it between them. “equals….two upside. U times V -_ makes complete sense._” He says sarcastically, looking utterly perplexed.

“It’s not just pray and aim, dummy.” He tells him again just as he did in Scotland; and points to different parts of the equations. “You gotta track the object and the movement of the earth, plus the distance you’re shootin’ from. And then, look here, it’s in the book. It’s a curve.” He explains, following the line drawn across the page. He licks and sticks his finger up again since Steve’s already distracted him, then checks his compass. “The winds…South-East today; not too fast - so you factor that in too and you get…”

He pulls the stubby pencil out from behind his ear; and works it out. “…this number.”

“Hold on, but how did you get this number before that? Where’s it even come from?”

“From here and here, divided by -”

“ - the movement of the earth.” Steve finishes, “Oh,_ I see._ But then you use the movement of the earth _again_ after you’ve worked out the curvature. Double whammy.”

“You absolute genius, you.” He teases as Steve grins, pleased, before he elbows Bucky in the side playfully.

“So what if you’re going off a distance of a six-fifty instead of two-fifty, and the wind is say… 5mph stronger from the same direction. You’d have to…” 

Bucky hands him the pencil and watches as Steve adds his own straighter handwriting in the corner.

“No no.” He corrects kindly after a minute or so. “You’re over-thinking it. You just switch the numbers round in the equation here and here, and add your wind-speed there. The complicated bit is the curvature, the rest is easy.”

Dugan snorts from where he’s stirring the pots. “None of that sounds the least bit easy.”

“Which is why,” Dernier says, accent curving around the English words as he stretches the cracks from his back out. “He is _sniper savant_ and you are not. A--”

“A genius. A master. An Ace of Spades. The Napoleon of sniping.” Three of the commandos chorus at once.

Steve’s smiling brilliantly as he laughs, especially as Dernier sinks into a dramatic bow for applause.

“I know, I know.” He says, “I am the next William Shakespeare, it’s true. Ha ha!” He laughs, and claps, “I must be good, you already know my lines.”

Even Bucky can’t restrain a smile, leaning more into Steve without realizing as he watches how the smile fits on his friend’s new face. It sits the same.

Steve’s still laughing when he corrects the written problem. Bucky gives him a thumbs up; and he smiles fondly and nudges Bucky in the ribs again.

“This brings back some memories, huh?” He says quietly. He means all the times Bucky used to sit up against the headboard with him and help with all the homework he missed. A time-honored tradition they’d done for years; in the light and in the dark.

“I remember you used to be far more tetchy.” He teases.

“To be fair I was normally working through a headache.”

“Oh _of course_,” Bucky agrees. “It was always funny, how your headaches invariably seemed to magically appear _as_ I pulled out the math books.”

“They did not.”

“But _Bucky,_” he mocks in Steve’s childhood voice, “do we have to do this now? How about we read instead? - No but _my head hurts, Bucky_. How am I supposed to do _‘sums’_ when my head hurts. _It’s not fair.”_

“I have never, in my life, ever said those words.” Steve lies primly.

“You never said them during History, I’ll tell you that right now. Or English. Or_ Bible Study, urgh._”

Steve laughs, agreeing. “Bible study always was yours, to my math.” He jokes until Bucky’s cut the dramatics and is grinning properly with him.

Steve’s right though, now that he’s thinking of it - it is familiar in a happy _lovely_ way, and it brings a fond smile to his face too as he remembers Steve squinting at the books in the low light; the yellow lamp light glancing off his collarbone. He can’t help but feel a warm, pleased ball form in his stomach at the way Steve used to roll his eyes in playful exasperation when Bucky got so excited about a new problem or “_new experiment, Steve, it was so neat you should have been there”_ they’d learnt that day; and how Steve used to lean back so Bucky had room to express it with wide juggling hand movements. There’s nothing he wants to change about these memories.

“Do you do this everyday? Before you make every shot?” Steve’s voice beside him brings him back to the present. “I mean, I know how the wind direction and speed can affect the shot but I didn’t realize this much went into it.”

“Not everyday.” Bucky answers. “I do it before missions though usually if I can. It helps.” Plus, Bucky likes the tradition of it. “Normally in the morning, once I know the wind direction and can guess the speed. Sometimes once I get to wherever my perch is; but normally that’s in my head. It’s easier if I already have some of the numbers ready.”

“Huh.” Steve says. “I never really thought about it like that. That’s actually, and I can’t believe I’m saying this about math, but that’s actually really cool.”

He shrugs, “Probably just cause it’s me.”

“Probably,” Steve agrees, handing the notepad back over. “For sure. Practically oozes outta’ you.”

“Don’t you know it.”

He managed to make his nasty dream, the one where he’s wrapped like a shroud, go away last week. It hasn’t come back - and so - he can eat. It’s so great, and noone’s in a mood with him today. 

. . .

“You know, speaking of student teaching.” He adds later on as they’re marching. “You never paid me back.”

“For what?” Steve calls from behind him.

“For all the homework help. Remember? I wanted you to teach me--”

Steve laughs, remembering. “You wanted me to teach you how to draw a horse.”

“And a naked lady.”

“I remember that request too, when we were older.”

“I still can’t draw either.” He calls.

Steve looks back to grin at him. “I’ll teach you tonight!”

“Oh yeah? That a promise?”

“After food before watches start. It’s a date.”

“Sweet.” Bucky grins, voice going higher on the s’. “My girl’s gonna’ have huge knockers.” He tells Steve and everyone else.

“What, the horse or the naked dame?” Morita jokes.

“_Both._”

“Jesus.” Jones mutters, shaking his head. “What have I got myself into with you nutters?”

Steve’s laughing again. “Whatever you want Buck.”

He made Steve laugh, and he feels gleefully happy for it. A great accomplishment for a good day.

. . .

Sometimes in his notebook he opens to a clean page and thinks about not doing math, or curves or doodles of scopes. These are on his worse for wear days.

Sometimes he even starts, getting four or even seven sentences into some kind of ‘memoir before he changes his mind and scribbles it _out out out _until the whole page is black with graphite.

He stops thinking of it as a memoir and instead as a diary; like Lily had begun writing when he left. That doesn’t work either - so he pretends as if he’s writing a letter to himself and that feels weird and even worse. He instead writes letters to people like Steve and his parents, and even to the SSR command once; and in them he tells the truth of what really happened to him - and not the larger-than-life-lie he’s still living in.

He writes about Zola. He writes about rain on his face and skull-bone in his hair. He writes about two bloodstains on concrete, one red and one brown, that he can picture but not really remember. He’d never send those letters and no-one will see them - because the longest he lasts with a full letter on the page is four days; and then he blacks out all those pages too. The others last for a shorter amount of days, or hours or even only a couple of minutes because he starts feeling itchy under his skin and then over it; like he’s buried in an ant hill. The feeling lingers until every last word is gone from the pages and then the itches settle.

He decides to cut it out whiles he’s ahead, and goes back to his math.

. . .

“Not too shabby for a couple of mouthy brats from Brooklyn.” Steve says, laughing - as they crash their way through their first Eastern Front, and live to tell the tale. There is a lot of furious fighting - on both sides.

Bucky doesn’t find it that funny because Steve gets shot in the arm; the same fucking arm as his terrible burn. It’s safe to say Bucky panics, that he probably over-reacts, then hovers for a long while after - watching Morita give Steve stitches he probably doesn’t need - but what can he say. He worries - he has a mission to accomplish.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” Steve likes to almost sing-song at him, trying not to bring too much attention to it. Or maybe not sing-song - he probably says it normally - it just feels like it is to Bucky because he clearly does not give a _goddamn shitting shit about it._ The idiot. Bucky revisits his idea from Czechoslovakia of strangling him until his eyeballs pop out of his head.

He has to just sigh and walk off in the end. He did go a bit nuts; probably the lack of sleep getting to him again. He needs a nap to get his head back on straight. He can’t have what happened in Poland happen again.

. . .

Steve, nursing his sore arm, seems to take an instant dislike to the Russian commander in charge of their little coalition. He’s named Vasily Karpov, a Colonel, and he’s tall and stony-eyed, with a bold head and shaped beard. Stalin has installed him with the quite rightful job of ensuring Hydra hasn’t encroached onto Soviet territory or worse; within _Russian _borders. Turns out they have, as discovered in 41’; though the agenda of discovering them has not been forthcoming.

They’re here to see what the commandos have got, and for brief introductions - as it’ll be him they are perpetually going to be touching base with on this side of the Europe. If they want to enter Soviet territory, it has to be on Karpov’s clearance - not Philips'.

_Aah, the job of international relations. You’ve got to love it_, Bucky thinks idly. The hunt for Hydra has been upped - as due to the commandos destructive tendencies they’ve been shifting all their assets to unknown compounds - a number of Soviet border patrols have been obliterated when they’ve caught them. If that isn’t clear cut evidence - Bucky doesn’t know what is.

Dugan reckons the ante has suddenly been amped up in order to protect Russia’s own covert interests. _Something fishy_, is the words that are used - and Bucky thought _he_ was the paranoid one.

“_Everyone_ is protecting their own covert interests.” Bucky argues for the sake of it. “Every single damn country - including ours. Carter’s_ literal job_ is to break into and shine a light on covert interests, while protecting ours at the same time. And MI5’s for that matter - no doubt she’s also still tied to them."

Dugan very conveniently ignores those perfectly relevant points, and pretends as if he hasn’t spoken.

“I’m just saying.” Dugan murmurs to him and Dernier in French, hitching a ride off the battlefronts into protected Soviet territory. “If Hydra could get a operative into the observation deck of _Rebirth_ they’re probably worried Hydra have gotten into theirs too. Who knows what state secrets these lot are trying to keep under wraps.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, still answering in French. “You just don’t like communists.”

“Well no, I don’t--”

“They might even have people in Britain, or more in the States. You’re not talking about hunting down the corruption over there I notice.”

“I fucking will if I find out about it.” Dugan iterates.

“Here here.” Dernier agrees.

“Why do you suddenly trust these people so much?” Dugan cuts in to ask after a appreciative “thank you!” towards Jacques.

“I don’t.” Bucky replies; what a stupid inaccurate question. “I just don’t see why we should trust these any less than anyone else. Keep it a flat level of distrust, make it fair.”

“Trust them any…even our own people?”

“Outside of you lot and Carter - no.”

Dernier sighs this time, “that’s e’ hell of a hard way to live, Buck’ee.”

Bucky sighs again, this time in aggravation. “Could you stop? I’m having a good day - don’t ruin it with conspiracy theories.”

“Everything’s e’ conspiracy.” Jacques says, “we’re a conspiracy right now - talking Francois so they can’t understand us.”

“You two are making me want to jump off a moving vehicle right now. Where’s Monty to talk about the shittin’ weather when you need him?”

. . .

In the aftermath of an assault in Belarus; a small but honestly fairly inconsequential outpost; Karpov arrives at the rubble; and discovers as they did that it was manned by a mere five men. There’s graves of eight others who’d frozen to death in the last winter - the whole outpost having been trapped within by heavy snowfall.

When he sees it Karpov says to Steve, “You do not understand, you cannot. You and the Germans, you have super-soldiers…your secret weapons. But we Russians…we have nothing but the winter.”

And the Summer is coming - goes unsaid. Perhaps that’s why Stalin signed with the rest at Tehran - the Soviets have lost more men than States and Great Britain combined, and have been fighting twice as long as the rest.

Steve’s itching to head back to London and get back to planning the tearing up of the next major compound.

_“I want to rip them up root and stem.” He said once._

There’s more Hydra around - but they don’t know where; and with long unending stretches of Russian territories they'd need a miracle to just happen across _one._ They’ll be time for diplomacy and other assaults once they actually have information. The squad (and the SSR probably) thought they had information, but it turns out they actually don’t; so the longer they stay here waiting for intel to magically appear is just wasting time. He gets the clearance to go - Bucky does not.

“Why?” Steve queries quite rudely.

Bucky groans and says before anyone can. “They already said. The Soviets and Finns have the best snipers on both sides of the world - and I haven’t trained in real winter environments - or really in close quarter urban fronts. It’s a month, Captain.” He addresses with the title this time seeing as they are in company;_ see, _his respect; or at least the show of it is getting better.

It’s to solidify the relationship after the agreement made in Tehran, and as Steve’s second-in-command he’s a good choice for it. He’s not the only British or American solider or squad commander to be lent out for the purpose of international relations. The agreement itself is way above his head in fact, so he’s not in an position to question it. And honestly, the training they are offering would be insanely lucrative for the whole squad.

“It’s not the end of the world.” He finishes.

His tone is upbeat, reassuring - but he doesn’t completely feel it. There is one dilemma - his mission. A month can be a long time - a long time where he can’t stop Steve doing whatever bat-brained scheme he decides on next - but he’s only going to London.

_“And you’re just going to London? Just to London? Nowhere else?” He has to confirm._

_“So far. Apparently.”_

Bucky doesn’t like the sound of that _apparently_, or that _so far._ The motherfucker is not going on a mission without him if he has anything to do with it. Eventually Bucky just has to accept it - it’s only a month - and Steve shouldn’t be able to get up to anything too nefarious. All he’s got to do to not to get killed is ensure he stays underground in a bunker during the air-raids - and Steve certainly will make sure he does that himself after Regensburg. Bucky finds he believed him fully when he’d admitted in their little foxhole that being trapped like that affected him more than he let on; affected him so much he’s having nightmares about being trapped too. Steve will be fine.

He’ll spend most of his days under sun-lamps - in front of a camera - probably talking to members of Parliament; and their wives, sons and daughters too. He’ll be fine - and this way Bucky gets to escape most of the radio and television interviews waiting for them. Silver linings and all that.

Fletcher says to him later: “I’m doing one interview here for them of you. But nice try.”

Bucky groans long-suffering, “Why do you hate me, Fletch.”

The man laughs: “Sit down in front of that wall - straighten your collar and put on a smile.”

Bucky makes him manoeuvre his body into the chair for his own amusement as Dernier laughs at his dramatics.

“Right,” Fletcher says, “say hi to the kids at homeactually can we style your hair?”

“No.” Bucky tells him.

Fletcher pulls a face. “We’re styling your hair.” He decides for him anyway. “Who has gel? Brylcream, kitchen grease - anything? Need him to look suave for the ladies.”

“I’m already suave.” Bucky defends, only a little put-out.

“Of course you are, sport.” Fletcher says, and the moniker sounds strange coming out of his mouth - he’s a decade older than Bucky but he’s not _that old._ The last person who called him ‘sport’ was his baseball coach when he was thirteen. He pats him on the shoulder and then starts fiddling with the top of his head. Bucky looks up, cross-eyed as he licks his fingers with his own saliva to style it when Jacques fails to find him anything pomade worthy. He fluffs Bucky’s hair to the side - catches one strand and tugs.

“_What_ are you doing?”

“Giving you a devil-may-care swirl, sport.” He responds, then steps back with a last twist, hands out as he considers him. A circular curl twists and hangs over Bucky’s forehead like Errol Flynn or Clark Kent from the comics. For all that Bucky looks ridiculous -_ridi__culously__ good-looking his old sweetheart Dot would say with a wink_ \- the photographer’s spit has done the job. “Aah, there, perfect.” He says, “all those lucky ladies will go wild for you. The Captain will get the lovely church-going lasses - and you; you’ll get the sharper edged ones--”

“Oh yeah, your regular star-studded bad boy.” Bucky grumbles, but at least straightens his collar. He used to always smile at home; wanting to be a nice boy - not one you’d think about meeting when you turned down the wrong alley. He decides: “I’m not smiling. Bad boys don’t smile.” He announces: “They smoulder.”

Dernier points at him. “’s true. He cannot smile if ‘ou want him to fully embrace e’ part ‘ou’ve made for him.”

Fletcher sighs, but can’t argue. “Smoulder at me like it’s your last night on earth then. Give me the best smoulder I ever did see.”

Bucky smoulders, he smoulders so good Morita walks in the tent, starts laughing and has to leave - and Fletcher barks out - “Not like that. Too much, too much. You’re blinding me, man! Don’t break my genius.”

Steve, even on the day before they leave, is not happy about leaving him. Bucky honestly can’t see why outside of the almost clingy habit they’ve both picked up over the last few months from each other; they haven’t really been apart since Krausberg; and look what happened when they left each other then. Steve orders for Dernier to wait the month out with him, seeing as he’s been a rather constant companion for him.

Now Bucky groans, “_why?_” He adds, “and don’t say for company.”

They’re altogether in a communal tent; it consists of four beds, a desk and a small heater. They’re all doing a number of different things; and for once Bucky is not cleaning his guns, doing math, or carving his puns into lighters. Dernier’s off with Fletcher somewhere - doing his interview early like Bucky had to.

Steve says, “Think of it as back-up.”

“Back up for what?” Bucky questions, “they’re not gonna drop me in the middle of a snow field and leave me there. It’s training, I’ll have someone with me who can speak English. And no offence to Jacques; he’ll be great if they want to employ some explosion expertise while he’s here - but there’s not going to be much to do while I’m sat in perches.”

“Just...just shut up and take it okay.” Steve says with finality, “It’s not just for you - I’d do it for any one of the guys if we were getting split up for separate assignments. No one goes alone. That’s my rule.”

“Since when?”

“Since the beginning.” Steve answers, “we just haven’t had the reason to address it properly yet - I nearly sent Jones back with Falsworth when he caught the bullet, didn’t I?”

“He did, to be fair.” Jones notes, not looking up from what he’s doing. “But because it was just London and we were going back anyway we left it how it was.”

“Exactly. If any one of you is staying out in the field without the rest of us, then you aren’t staying out alone. Decision final.”

“Fine, fine.” Bucky allows, waving a hand and giving in. He shuffles a little further back, and goes back to his reading. The conversation continues on, waving and flowing; easy and serious subjects in the evening break. Eventually it comes back to Russian Commanders and the last week, what they’ve found, and then back to Vasily Karpov.

Eventually Steve admits, “I don’t like him.”

Bucky scoffs from the corner of the tent, busy reading through Jones’ crumpled copy of _Flash Gordon and Jungle Jim #3_ from 39’. It’s one they’ve both read before, but it’s nice to live in nostalgia. “You just don’t like him ‘cause he can rightfully give you orders.”

For once Steve decides to respond to that unhelpful comment. “That’s not true - I like Philips.”

“Yeah. _Now._ When he got off your ass.”

“Yep.” Morita comments from the other side of the cot; pointing a finger, where he and Bucky are sat foot to foot. “Pretty sure you weren’t a fan before that.”

They’re talking low - a mix of French and English again so any eavesdropping Russian soldiers are unlikely to be able to understand. Especially if Steve’s going to insult their commander.

“It’s different - there’s something about him - unsettling…in the way he looks at me.”

“You are a pretty unsettling sight.”

Steve groans, “Will you stop insulting me for one minute so we can actually have a conversation.”

Bucky sighs mournfully as he puts down the comic - Falsworth keeps cleaning his guns, Jones continues trying to translate the documents they recovered and _conveniently_ haven’t handed over yet - and Morita keeps reading - though he has one ear on them still. “You’re imagining things. He doesn’t look at you any different than he looks at me - and I’m the one who’s gonna’ end up stuck with him for a month. You get to escape.”

“Yes. But he’s the one who offered the training, not Command--”

“So?”

“So…” Steve groans, “so I don’t know.”

“Honestly,” Bucky says, “you’re as bad as Dugan.”

“Nothing wrong with being careful,” the man comments gruffly too, jumping into the conversation with a quick comeback. “so shut the hell up man.”

Bucky follows that quick comeback with an even quicker one.

“_Oh_?” He says with fake-surprise - “being called paranoid doesn’t sit well with you, does it? _Shock horror_. Who would have thought?”

Dugan winces, remembering that shower-block walk out. “Yeah okay, fair. You’ve got me there.” He allows. “I’m just saying - there’s nothing wrong with thinking about ulterior motives.”

“And I point out again - you don’t look for ulterior motives with others - that’s normally just me. With everyone.” He waves his arms up. “How is it that when I finally calm my tits on the suspicion - you lot pick it up like a hot potato? What is this, reverse week?”

Steve asks. “You really don’t think he seems…slimy?” He finishes with uncertainty, as though not sure on the chosen descriptor but unable to think of another.

“I think he seems Russian.” Bucky answers, “not everyone can have the charm of the Great Americas. It’s probably just a cultural thing.” He looks at Falsworth - “You’re staying suspiciously quiet over there - want to offer any over-complicated wordy suggestions?”

“Keep me out of this - I’m not getting involved.” Is the response he gets, “I just want to think about the cot I’m sleeping on tonight.” He looks at Morita for support instead - luckily, unlike the rest of his friends he gets some show of it.

“They are a pretty detached people.” Morita adds in assent, which is an understatement considering Bucky witnessed a solider shoot another in the face on the first day, and then admit that the man used to be his cousin.

“You really don’t--”

“No. But if it’ll make you feel any better I’ll…keep an eye out for any sliminess. Does that make you happy?”

Steve’s face says no, even as he says “yes.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One quote from this chapter is from the wonderful program that is Sense8, whose many beautiful dialogue sequences are a work of art; and this one in particular worked perfectly for what I wanted to portray. No copyright intended of course, only admiration. If you have watched it before you'll likely have recognised it, and if not - well, then you should watch Sense8. You will not be disappointed. 
> 
> We have a rather long chapter this week considering I went back a couple of days before posting and added another 4,000 bloody words, oops! Ha! And if it makes anyone happy...I may have noted down a few first drafts of some dialogue for the sequel of this....only short and only saved in my phone at the moment, but you've got to start somewhere. Got to finish this one first though, as I keep reminding myself.
> 
> Thank you very much to all my commenters, as always, and thank you and welcome to all the new readers from the las chapter. I love the whole lot of you.
> 
> REFERENCES:  
WEISSBROT FRESSER : Derogatory name the German’s used for Americans. JERRY was another term they used, with IVAN’S for the Soviet’s and TOMMIES for the British. WEISSBROT means ‘white-bread’ which was served in all mess halls and in all American commissionaires in Germany before and after the war. The key is the next world ‘FRESSER’ which is derived from the German verb ‘fressen’. In German ‘essen’ means ‘to eat’ referring to people and ‘fressen’ means to eat referring to animals. Basically : WHITE BREAD ANIMALS.  
FAT-HEAD - 40s slang. A stupid or foolish person  
SWIGGER - 40s slang. A drinker  
LETTUCE - 40s slang. Paper Money  
ROPHY - 30s slang for what is basically Rohypnol, or "roofies" which typically causes a person to be sedated, euphoric, uninhibited. The person may slur their speech and look sleepy. But they may also encounter one of the less desirable effects of Rohypnol: weakness, headache, difficulty breathing, nausea, unconsciousness, confusion, difficulty seeing clearly.  
FORCE FEEDING - Description of the event was taken from the accounts of the suffragette Sylvia Pankhurst, and Djuna Barnes; the journalist who underwent it willing in 1913 for The New York Magazine; titled "How it feels to be forcibly fed". An uncomfortable subject and one I did not enjoy researching.


	31. PART 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve see’s the glint of a knife - and one shadow jabs it three times into the agent - another grabs his briefcase - and they run. It happens so fast.
> 
> “Hey!” Steve yells, and the SSR man concaves, blood ballooning from his belly in the low light. He hits the ground hard, half on the road, half on the pavement. Steve starts running.

STEVE

_SSR Base, Highbury & Islington, Holloway Road, London I __51.54609° N, -0.10407945° E_

The SSR base of operations just off the copse of Islington is buried beneath a bank; it consists of work rooms for Stark, a integral map room, offices, bedrooms, bunkers and escape tunnels that exit out further down the street. Steve spends half his time operating between there and Churchill’s War Rooms. They’ve been, or_ he’s_ been offered rooms in a local hotel; his choice dependant, but he honestly prefers to just stay in the base himself - it’s easier access to work, less likely to collapse on him if bombed; and certainly has less pomp and circumstance. It also means he’s able to avoid the press and people he is decidedly less excited to see too. An well deserved bonus when he can get it, he decides. He cannot however, always escape from the cameras.

They sit him down for a long interview in the _The Times_ and _Daily Herald _offices, and he closes his eyes as they touch up his hair, and then rosy up his cheeks.

“You need some more colour, love.” The older lady from the East End, who is fixing him up, says. “You need to get some more sun.”

Steve would smile and say it’s difficult to get sun when he spends most of his time in London inside the secret bunker - but he can’t say that - as that would suggest they have a secret bunker, which is _oh no off limits, Rodgers_. There’s a lot he can’t say. He’s been talked through a list of things and subjects he cannot under any circumstances address - and other things that he also can’t - but they’re not under pain of death. Peggy and Dugan have accompanied him into the building and the room; with Falsworth in another room with the others for their interviews - to ensure the reporters doesn’t veer out of the scope of the provided questions.

_“They probably will.” Peggy warns him, having had to put away her work in order to accompany him. “That’s why I’m going”_

_“To make sure I keep my mouth shut?” He guesses with a raised eyebrow and teasing smile._

_“To ensure no-one says too much of anything. You or them. You can’t be any worse than Howard she very _ _expressly_ _ rolls her eyes, “so I have some hope for your sex.”_

_“Is there any way you want me to”_

_“I’m not going to tell you what to say or how to act Steve, outside of ensuring nothing classified is exposed.” Peggy cuts in. “That’s up to you how you wish to _ _portray_ _yourself.”_

_“I was hoping I could _ _portray_ _ myself as, well, myself.” He adds._

_“There you go then.”_

_“And if they don’t like that?”_

_“Screw them.” Peggy scoffs, “you’re Captain America, you can do what you want.”_

He just smiles closed mouthed at the lady and agrees, “probably.”

When he opens his eyes as they turn on the stage lights Peggy’s smirking in amusement, leaning against the back wall. She moves her hands to her face when only he’s looking; mouths ‘perk up’ - and then, with a theatrical flair - an over-exaggerated finger smile. ‘Put on a smile, hero!’

He shakes his head at her, barely restraining pulling a face in return.

“Think of our favourite Senator.” She says out loud in French. “That’ll get you into the ‘war-bonds are the way to victory’ mind-set.”

“What was that?” One of the Ministry of Information Organizers asks, interested, as he turns to look at her.

“Nothing.” She replies swiftly.

Steve retorts: “You are terrible” to her. She can’t help but lift a shoulder, the universal Peggy gesture for ‘I know.’

“Alright”, the American organizer of the room of reporters declares. “Shall we start?”

“Sure.” He says amicably, used to this at least - though now he won’t have to lie about being on the front. Silver lining and all. The reel begins recording.

“Hello Captain Rodgers, thank you for sitting down this us today.”

“Of course.” He replies easily, “anytime.”

“Why don’t we start with the beginning, just for the record;” the man begins, and winks at him. “--though it may not be the most exciting part of your story.” Steve blinks at that addition, but nods. He supposes the man he was before is and may always will be a footnote - not that these men actually know any clear facts about the serum or his size. He was made for the war - and so that’s where his real story starts. “Before your service to the country began - what were you doing?”

“Working in New York,” he answers, “while taking classes at City College. I worked front of counter at a Radio shop. Lived in Brooklyn near Hell’s Kitchen, then towards Fort Green.”

“Aah, humble beginnings. I would expect nothing less.”

“I guess you could say that.” Steve comments.

“Do you remember the day Pearl Harbour was attacked?”

“I remember it very well.” Steve answers. “I was in a drawing class - or just after it - and suddenly everyone was scrambling in the building and out trying to find a radio.” His Professor had come running into the room where they were milling about after class - a good ten or so of them, and his best friend had arrived as he, Steve and Bertie were going out to get food at their usual diner after. The moustached, bow-tied professor had announced at a yell so all could hear -_ ‘Sneak attack! They bombed the hell outta’ Pearl Harbour! Get your uniforms on boys!’ _

_Steve had frozen in abject disbelief, spluttering ‘wait - who bombed what now? Peal Harbour? That in Queens?’ He’d expected the war to reach them eventually, he knew it would but, somehow he hadn’t expected the first attack to be so close to his home._

_Bucky, who thank the Lord who art in heaven had a day off from his dock shifts, _ _hollered_ _ ‘Turn on a radio!’_

“I remember everyone went quiet - the whole square - all of us listening to Roosevelt on a single radio a man was holding out of the window, a bunch of microphones from the music department shoved in front of it. Turned as loud as it could go. It was atrocious - dreadful - but; not altogether a shock.”

“What do you mean?” A reporter on the first row cuts in with a frown. His badge identifies him as from the _Herald._

“I mean,” Steve says, “in the sense that the world was already at war - it would only have been a matter of time until we were dragged into it. It took an attack on our own soil for us to finally act to”

“Captain,” the organizer from the American Ministry of Information interrupts, so Steve stops. “Perhaps steer away from subjects such as-” he clears this throat with an _ahem, _“stick to how it made you feel; the anger, the righteousness to defend the Great U.S of A.” The man prompts with a pushy smile.

“Right.” Steve says, mollified. He gives Peggy a look over the man’s shoulder, a_ ‘so much for myself, huh?_’ He decides instead to stick to the great patriot act of Captain America, instead of measly Steve Rodgers. Instead he talks of enlisting; (but not his second, third, fourth and fifth) and the fact that every man, woman and child has the right to freedom - and that the Axis powers do not believe in freedom, and so he would not stop fighting until every soul is free.

That gets a much more approved response, so with that thought he makes a decision. He sticks to the party line - giving them what they want to hear - all smiles, and Constitutional belief. Peggy gives him a smile that is a little sad, but a small thumbs up anyway in the corner - but also rolls her eyes to make him smile.

He runs over the rescue of Krausberg, lies that it was an Allied manoeuvre, and what it took to get the four hundred men home. They talk about his medals, a little of the food on the front; he mentions the importance of rationing - where they stop him, pleased, as he brings it up. Another mark - he’s starting to realize he knows a lot more about the process tag-line propaganda than they seem to realize - as they take it as though he’s included it in his words naturally instead of purposely. They break off from the questions to record a statement on the rationing from him; encouraging people not to use the black markets as it undermines the American efforts.

Peggy intervenes when the questions come regarding previous assignments when they power through his “I’m not at liberty to say” and keep pushing. She clears her throat sharply, and loudly - the British MOI personnel hears her, and knowing her place with them, has a word with the American organizer. He shuts it down - but questions still come - so she takes a step away from the wall and has a very clear conversation in the ear off the organizer - citing that he will control the room or they will remove themselves from the offices.

The man calls a halt completely to that line of questioning after a small argument, where he seems to bristle at being ordered around by a woman, but when Peggy doesn’t back down - finds a compromise, taking over from the room. “You were spotted in Italy recently, Captain,” he notes as an alternate, “are you at liberty to answer questions regarding that?”

The organizer looks between both Steve and Peggy, then has to cut off to control the room again who round up with their own questions. Dugan shrugs at him, Peggy gives a small, defined nod as Steve double checks with her. He gives them a run down of what he can of the assault, and what he witnessed there. He speaks of how many of the Italian Parisians had turned on Mussolini long before he surrendered, and are pushing back where they can against the now withstanding German occupation. He speaks of the destruction, and then on regarding how they have friends in the Resistance in every country, who are men and women they should all admire as much as their soldiers on the front. Just because they surrendered to protect their country - does not make them weak. This is something that comes easy, as he has quite a bit of experiences working with the Underground Associates in many of the countries he has been in. He gives a short, but sweet, anecdote of their late Christmas, and the loving family who opened their table and stable to them for a night.

“It may not seem like much at the time, but when you’ve been in the field for weeks or months on end - something as simple as a warm roof over your head means so much. Any soldier will likely say the same. In fact,” Steve decides, “if they’re listening when this is broadcast on the radio, I’d very much like to say thank you - you made such a difference to my men and I. It brought many smiles to our faces.”

“It is very hard out there, no doubt;” one man, from the _Times_ says; after the organizer motions that it’s his term to speak. “But we must push through as you know Captain; and there are times like this where it takes a little of suffering to”

“No.” Steve interrupts flatly, almost instantly and probably insolently, meeting the man’s eyes, a stony look in them.

“Excuse me?”

He gains control of himself. “No.” He repeats firmly, “before if you say that sometimes suffering builds character - or makes you stronger - no.” Peggy and Dugan watch him carefully from the far wall at the sudden turn that has come unbidden - but this is extremely central to his being. He’s not playing the party line here. He supposes it’s one of his core beliefs - and he hates it when people have this outlook; mainly because they used to say it to him to make him feel better about his struggles.

“Sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn’t build character, it doesn’t make you stronger. It just hurts.” He declares, and Peggy nods almost unconsciously. “The suffering of the people trapped in occupied countries is not something to be excused as a mere origin of strength, nor do the boys fighting on the front need to suffer to make them men. That idea is not something I’m going to speak on - so I’d appreciate it if we could move on from whatever it was you were gong to ask me. Or phrase it another way. ”

There’s a long sparse half-minute of silence, and even the scribes stop writing. The organizer eventually hums and agrees to move on. Questions after that stop and start, and now for the most part he doesn’t hold back from being himself. Eventually they move to personal things once more. Such as,_ if he writes letters home? And to who? And what do you say?_

“I write to friends at home mostly, or elsewhere on the front.”

“Just friends? No family?”

“No.” Steve says, smiling thinly as he thinks of his mother and her grave at St Agnes cemetery. He relents, “Or--no family that is blood anyway. My best friend’s sister is working in one of our munitions factories - I write her - she just got a promotion… She’s doing a swell job getting the men at the front all the equipment they need to succeed.”

Mark two or three in his pocket for the correct thing to say, clearly, from the pleased looks both the British and American Ministry of Information officials give him for sliding that Woman’s Work tag-line in.

“I’m real proud of her for doing her part.”

“Well then,” an American man from CBS says, “that answer brings up a question I’m sure we’re all wanting to know; is this young lady someone special? Does Captain America have a sweetheart waiting for him at home?”

Just the thought of Becca like that is enough to send an uncomfortable shiver through him - “Err no-- we grew up together, younger - too young. She’s more of a sister to me than anything else. As for the other question….”

He very expressively does not look at Peggy.

“No, I don’t have one back home.” He dares, knowing it’s close if they spot the hole in his sentence. He adds, just in case they do - “but if I did I wouldn’t speak of it - for privacy sake.”

“Really Captain? I’m sure our readers would”

“I’m a very private man at heart.”

The man from CBS nods, “well the girls at home will be glad to hear that you are still a free man.”

_(Don’t say something to aim for, don’t say something to aim for.)_

“something to aim for.”

Peggy is biting her lip to keep from laughing. The next he gets is “do you carry any reminders of home with you?”

_Does my best friend count? _“I keep a good old fashioned crinkled dollar with me,” he pats his empty pocket on his chest. Dugan mouths “bullshitter” at him. Another coin in his favour as that’s labelled as a good luck charm - and he almost nods and says _yes; it is a little like a balavas_ before he can stop himself. They ask him if he has any superstitions.

“Only belief in my country.” He says, straight of face. “That’s all I need.”

Dugan chokes on a snort at the back - Peggy promptly smacks him three times with a newspaper. The Ministry officials turn at the sound, and she’s back in the safe position against the wall, looking innocent and a little bored. Steve is wearing a matching innocent expression on his face - and the reporters eat it up.

They go through a few more, ending with: “And, last but not least, do you have any advice or words for our brave men on the front?”

Steve thinks, this at least; this he wants to be sincere in. “There’s lots of things I’d like to say to them, but when it comes down to it - there’s only one thing that I can say.” He looks directly into the rolling camera; parked in the center aisle of the room filled with seated reporters; trained on him in his dress uniform. He deliberately did not wear his Medal of Valour - feels too much like showing off - just the usual rank of Captain on his lapel. “Keep doing what you’re doing. And I know it’s hard, and tough and exhausting some days - but, when those days come - think about what it is your fighting for. A Single individual who has the Right Heart and the Right Mind; that is consumed with a single purpose…that one man can win a war.”

The reel rolls, and Peggy and Dugan are watching him carefully again.

“Give that one man a group of soldiers with the same conviction, and you can change the world. That is what your fellow division men, squads, pilots, torpedo technicians - everyone, are - another man with the Right Heart and the Right Mind; so never forget each other. Together we can do this - we can win the war, we can set free the millions of people trapped in the hold of a few powerful men. We can do this together.”

There’s a long silence with that, and men and accompanying secretaries note down his words quickly - Fletch, who’s appeared in the doorway is nodding, and he gives Steve a proud thumbs up. When he gets up from the chair, done with his interview he makes a point of shaking everyone’s hand. Dugan, leaning against the snack table, chewing on a cracker mumbles; “you cheesy shit. Fuck a duck, Cap.”

“Shut up.” Steve whispers back, and shoves him forward with pleasure. “Your turn.”

. . .

“Captain America fights the good fight on the harsh fronts of Europe for the freedom of all; the love for his country shines out through his eyes as he imagines home at the war’s end.” Steve reads, “he spoke with fondness and nostalgia of his loving parents and Christian family waiting for him at” He throws it on the table. “Really?”

“White wholesome nuclear family reads better than tenement-slum-orphan. Sorry Cap.” Jones says.

“C_learly._” Steve rolls his eyes, though he’s more partially amused and resigned than hurt.

“You read this bit about the harbour?” Morita reads. “‘In the words of Captain Rodgers : it was atrocious, dreadful and a true shock. Shock in that any man, country or person would dare dream of attacking our great nation; founded on the freedom of the people. Any enemy of America is an enemy to the free people.”

Steve groans, “that’s _not_ what I said at all - but I guess it isn’t terrible.”

“They could paint you a lot worse, Cap.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sighs, “I shouldn’t complain, and I’m not, it’s just”

“Annoying?”

“A piss take?”

“A circle of bullshit from a circle of bullshitters”

“A little frustrating.” Steve allows, “that’s all.”

“The important bit is that they got your inspired words at the end of the interview in,” Dugan says, “In the heading with twice as large font at that. That quote was the shit. Really good - I would have been fuckin' pissed if they skipped out on that. It was really something.”

“I just said what I was feeling.” Steve defends.

“Exactly Cap.” Jones says, “that’s what makes it even more important.”

Steve blushes, awkwardly scratching at the back of his head, fidgeting with his fork; swirling it in his food.

Morita snorts, “still humble to the very end I see. You need to learn how to take a compliment when you get one, Cap.”

“Yeah okay,” Steve allows, “thank you,” he mumbles at Jones. “What did they say for you?”

“I’m apparently a Baron.” Falsworth notes from the end of the table.

“Oh nice one man!” Morita says, holding up a hand for a high five. “You’ve moved up a class.”

Falsworth returns it with a largely fake, put-upon sigh. “Otherwise mine is generally on point; if not with a little extra flare.”

“You’ve got enough flare - you don’t need anymore.”

“Perhaps,” Falsworth allows. “You on the other hand Dum Dum could use another twenty cups of flare.”

“I got more page space than you - so who’s the real winner here?”

“Steve.” Three of them chorus at once. Steve rolls his eyes - takes a bite out of his mashed potato.

“I did get a two inch head-shot.” He notes after a push mildly, “if we’re being particular.”

“You also got most of the tough questions.” Dugan allows, “though they did keep pushing me on the question of our missions after you told them you couldn’t answer. Why they thought they could trick them out of me when both you and Carter were still in the room I don’t know.”

“Worth a shot, I guess.” Steve says, “you’ve got to admire their perseverance.”

“True true,” the man notes, after Falsworth and Jones both admit they got similar questions, “anyone spoken to Fletcher recently?” Dugan says after. “His editor is loving the shit he got apparently.”

“That's great - if it means he doesn’t have to risk his life again in another main assault.”

“I think he got everything he needed,” Jones admits, “it’s just photographs and flat recordings when we’re at base and bedded down now apparently - to add in here and there for the ‘film’ - that and any posters they’re doing for reference too.”

“Posters?” Morita asks.

“Buy war bonds. Woman in work. Land Army. Help your troops - that sort of thing.” Steve explains, who already has several of him doing the circuit, shot long before he exclusively joined the army. “They’ve got Bucky at his rife for a munitions supply one.” He notes, having seen the rough plan in passing. “I believe the tag-line is ‘Lets give him enough and on time!’.”

Morita snorts, “Oh he’s going to love that.”

“I’ve decided I’m not going to be the one to break it to him.” Steve adds.

The boys chuckle, “We heard from him and Jacques yet? How’s Mother Russia?”

Steve nods, swallowing his food. He has heard from Bucky actually, he got a letter back yesterday. “Says it’s good - that he’s learning a lot, so…”

“And the Russian’s themselves? It’s gotta’ be a bit strange when you’re surrounded and ‘upposed to work with men when you haven’t got a bloody piece of the language in you.”

“His main spotter is fluent in English, so not too bad.” Steve says, “a guy called Illya. And - it’s not that different than when we're out in the field not in France or Germany.” The boys shrug, allowing that’s true. “He’s been out on the Eastern line twice - think he might have gone behind the line too - not that he said. It’s more…”

“Reading between the lines?” Jones suggests.

Steve points his fork at him in affirmation, chewing. “He’s not saying too much - just generally chatting. Jacques gave me a bit more - he’s bored by the way.” Steve adds, rolling his eyes. “He hasn’t blown something up in over a week, it’s practically unbearable.”

The boys laugh. “That sounds about right.” Morita chuckles, “you should order Barnes to do him a solid and sneak him some dynamite - before he takes things into his own hands.”

“God forbid.” He agrees. “We’ll either be banned from Ivan-land or he’ll be kidnapped from us forever.”

. . .

When they leave Jones stays sat down with him, slurping on his now cold coffee as Steve finishes his second required portion of food.

“It bother you?” Jones asks, breaking the silence. “That he’s on the line and you’re not?”

Steve gives him a dull look. “Are you seriously asking if I’m jealous that Buck’s fighting on the front and I’m not? Cause you’re about two years too late for that joke.” Which he’s not willing to admit may have been a little true, for one minute, or a coalition of a couple of hours when they’re added together, a long time ago now. It’s not something he’s proud of.

“No.” Jones says, “I’m asking in the sense that he’s risking his life on one of the most brutal fronts on his own while the rest of us are here. Does that worry you, not having us to back him up if the worst comes?”

“He has Jacques with him.”

“Yeah…but Jacques likely isn’t going with him to each one of his sniper perches - he likely is having to stay back. The training and collaboration effort isn’t for him - it’s for your second in command.”

“I also, would be unlikely to go with him to each perch.” Steve notes, just because.

“True, but Jacques is not _you_.” Jones rolls his eyes. “You’re as bad as him you know, for avoiding the question. Very badly, I might add.”

Steve huffs and says, “it’s probably learnt behaviour.” He scoops another few mouthful of beef and gravy in his mouth, chewing and thinking. “Everything he does is going to worry me.” Steve admits eventually, “whether he’s alone or I’m with him. It comes with the territory.”

“The territory?”

“Of knowing each other for fourteen years? Of being pretty much referred to as Barnes-a_nd-_Rodgers instead of on my own for a good seven of those years? Of being being the guy who’s always stuck by me, the one guy I can always count on - who I’ve always wanted to repay back? Or the fact that he got fucking tortured when we were separated, and there’s not jack shit I can do to make it better it seems like. The territory of loving the guy? Pick one.” Steve suggests. “They’re all true - but he, he seems okay - as much as he is now - if I think about him catching a bullet a thousand miles away the second I’m not with him its only gonna’ freak me out and drive me crazy - so it’s better that I just.” He lowers his hands in a motion that suggests ‘let it be.’

“So you are worried.”

“Well,_ Yes._” Steve stresses, “but there’s not anything I can do about it outside of going against orders”

“something in my experience you’re more than happy to do.”

He quickly slants a look at Jones for that, but continues. “and crowding him - which is never something he likes - especially not now. It’s only going to make him feel useless if I always try to do everything for him - trust me, it’s a feeling I know. It’s not something I want him to feel, so…I’m not going to do that. And,” he sighs, “as much as I hated it to begin with - I have to admit now the idea of him doing the month over there can only end up being a good thing. It’s an asset for him to train up with the best of the best, and it’s a hell of an asset to create a foundation with the Red Army troops; and get a lay on their command structure and traditions so we don’t over-step. I’m checking in, which is all I can do. Why are you asking this?”

“You two have had a little double-act going since I met you, I guess - I’m still trying to figure you two out.”

“Not much to figure out.” Steve says frankly. “He’s my guy, and I’m his.”

“Yeah I’m finally starting to get that.” Jones comments, “it was a hell of an enlightening moment, I gotta’ admit, when I realized that if our Barnsey-boy was just a tiny bit less adorable we likely wouldn’t have made it out.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jones slants a look at him. “You came for_ him,_ didn’t you?”

“You lot and him were sort of a two together bonus.” Steve admits, “but...yes, my first thought of going was for him. I needed to do something - to act, and he would have done the same for me. Or, I like to think he would have.” Steve says. “I was about ninety nine percent sure I was gonna’ get my insides turned into outsides, but that one percent was enough.”

“One percent is all you need for you.” Jones says, “If not for it: then maybe we’d have been the ones who ended up on Zola’s table instead - or starved or marched to death; shot and left to rot like in the Czech base. “

“Yeah…” Steve mumbles, thinking of Bucky’s quietness…and the terrors in the night. “That’s not ever something you want.”

He never stops wondering what happened on that table, in those labs - and how Zola’s process was a long drawn out one instead of a flashing pulse like Steve’s. Sometimes he wishes that the Doctor had figured out the formula, and Hydra had some kind of success - because maybe that would have meant the experiments would have stopped. It’s a stupid thought, because he knows deep down - they would not have stopped. A new kind of experiment would only have started instead.

“I thank God everyday that He decided, out of mere chance, to put the one guy who had someone out there who cared enough to storm a Hydra factory; and was bonkers enough to succeed, in our unit. Everyday I thank Him. ‘Cause of you two I may actually be able to go home and marry my girl.”

“You will do.” Steve says, “it’s going to be beautiful. I can’t wait to see the fight over who gets to be your best man.”

Jones laughs, slurps the last of his coffee and stands. “I’m only asking all this ‘cause, well it’s no secret that we all keep an eye on that fella’, more than he wants certainly, but - you deserve to be checked in on too, ‘yanno.”

Steve nods, but says sincerely. “I’m okay. But thank you, Gabe.”

“Sure thing. I’ll see you by the maps when you’re done?”

“Sounds like a plan, stan.”

. . .

That the meeting does not go well is an understatement. They’re focusing on the base in Greece next, the one they know the least about; putting together a preliminary plan and what Peggy suggests is something Steve immediately riles against. So much so that he considers it almost outlandish.

“We’re not doing that.” Steve decides immediately out loud. “Too much risk.”

“Captain”

“You’re normally one all for risks ” Dugan goes to cut in.

“Not when we’re leaving men purposely out-gunned and out maneuvered in the field. Risking myself is one thing. Others is not. We’re not doing it.”

Peggy sighs in frustration, “if you would just listen”

“I don’t need to.” He reiterates, “these are real men, Peggy, real lives. They are not pieces on a chest board.”

To say that statement is not well-responded to is even more of an understatement. Steve keeps it respectful - in the beginning - but soon enough they’re snapping and hissing at each other at the table; Steve railing against the shade of morals he’s just seen her exhibit; the easy sacrifice of three hundred, and likely more for the good of all mentality; and she his inability to consider that not everything is binary - that they’re at war and sacrifices will be made. There’s always compromises, she says.

“Not in this.” Steve stands firm. “We find another way. We’ve done it before.”

She huffs, and after another hour of discussion they come to another suggestion; this one from Morita; and with Dugan’s agreement - but as more essential elements are added so is the loss of more lives. Steve finds he doesn’t agree with this plan either; deep in his gut---he checks himself, and it’s him deciding, not the serum.

“You don’t agree?” Peggy says, noticing his face. Her own expression is rather flat. “To that either.”

It starts again. The argument finishes with her snapping; “Not everything is black and white! The grey area, the place between those two concepts that you seem so determined to cling to, that’s where_ life happens_. It’s time you learnt that.”

They both storm off after that - and nothing gets decided.

. . .

In his letter Bucky is vague on the details of his training; outside of _my shooting is a work of art, you could call me the Picasso of bullets, I paint death as well as he does enormous noses._

Steve rolls his eyes, as that is a astronomically bad, inappropriate joke, and not one the Bucky-of-before would likely have uttered.

_That’s probably the reason he put it down honestly_, Steve knows.

There are slanting moments, he’s noticed, that Bucky likes to push to see how far he can take things; how dark he can go until Steve feels uncomfortable enough about it that he calls him on it. It’s like he’s testing what it’ll take to push Steve away spiritually; purposely trying to disgust him by pretending he doesn’t care about taking life when Steve knows he absolutely does care; he just doesn’t pray about it like Steve does.

He does not hold back on teasing Steve also - which is _very much_ like the Bucky-of-before and the Bucky-of-now - mostly about being gone a week ‘_and already you’re pining for me like a lost puppy. You are adorable Steve-o. I’m doing great without you, the best, the __brilliantest__, the most __exquisitely__ perfect; like a perfect glass of sherry after a long night to tip yourself off to bed with. I’m lying - sherry sucks. I’m not lying about the other part._

He’s totally lying, Steve also knows cheerfully, able to feel the tone that’s written into the grain of the paper. He’s such a punk.

He finds rereading the letter in order to reply cheers him up after that stupid argument with Peggy.

_I don’t miss you insulting me that’s for sure_. Steve writes back._ I’m just checking in. Wanted to make sure you were doing okay without your __precious balavas__ next to you everyday giving you the luck of Saint. No doubt without me hanging from a key-chain like a rabbits foot you’re falling into all the ditches and loosing all your money in cards. I pity you - no, I pity all the Russians more. Especially this fellow Illya for being forced to put up with you._

_How’s D? He seems a bit bored - find him something to blow up, will you - Jones’ orders so we don’t loose him to a coma of _ _monotony. _

_How’s the other thing? How’s the chrome dome__,_ _or the other _ _shenanigans_ _ going on or above over the hill?_ _You’re keeping an eye on it all as promised right, and yes, I know - I’m _ _insufferably_ _persistent_ _and paranoid. _

_You’ll be pleased to know I am now also being _ _perceptually_ _ paranoid about everyone here - like you said - to make it fair. To even the odds. I’ll keep you in the loop of what I find out. _

_ I do it all for you and what do I get? Your shitty jokes. Shame on you. Got a letter from Becca - she says hi, wants you to stop being annoying and write her back. So write her back, doofus - and the twins. Your sisters’ miss you. Please._

_ She got a big old smooch from Charlie in her last letter - I want you to know that just for the point in my corner for riling you up. I also may have un_ _intentionally_ _ called her bitch in our last letter - pray for me. Please. I beg of you. I need it._

_Stay safe. Steve._

_. . ._

Tucked up tight in a scarf, hat and civilian clothes Steve slips into an evening Mass on a Tuesday at St James’ Church, an immense building of white stone and marble; and it’s packed enough that he floats by unnoticed as he listens to the sermon on a pew at the back; kneels and prays; and then quietly sings the hymns with the parishioners. It just so happens, and Steve would consider it a coincidence if he didn’t _believe_, that the chosen sermon of the day’s Mass is of _guilt from sin._ Steve has felt rather guilty recently, he has to admit - though he’s been pushing it down so he can to continue on with his duty. _Probably not the best Catholic practice Steven, _his ma would probably say.

From up front the priest stands in all his regalia; and speaks of how guilt, when left to it’s own devices and void of the connection to healing, “can turn us inward and makes us focus dangerously on ourselves. And when we focus on ourselves, we are entering a realm that is unhealthy for our souls. We are entering the realm of sin.”

_Sin sets itself against God’s love for us, and turns our hearts away from him with it_, Steve knows.

“Using this definition,” the Priest says, “I often break down the idea of sin to conclude it is any time where I choose to serve myself rather than another. The guilt of sin; is refusing to love. And in refusing love, I’m refusing God because God is Love itself.”

Steve nods minutely to himself, head down, as he listens. It’s nice,_ it’s lovely infact; _a good decision was made on coming here. He stays behind after to kneel for a little longer; looking up at the glorious stained glass arched windows behind the seven pronged alter, hemmed in by insane double arches and under a vaulted ceiling. Each wall is decorated with mosaic tiles, and lit by flickering candles - a haven of peace and tranquility in the beauty of his faith.

One of the parish priests approaches him as he lingers, and Steve waves him off; saying it’s alright; he’s just taking a moment with the Almighty. The man nods, seems to think about further engaging him, but then steps aside to speak to another lingering soul.

“Actually, Father,” he decides a while later once his knees have begun to ache and instantly heal over, “I could use some guidance, and a Confession - if you’re free.”

“Of course, my son,” he says, and leads the way to the confession box. On the way he motions; “I knew I had not seen your face before. You are American, yes?” Steve nods. “A solider?”

“Yes, Father.”

The man nods, as if already predicting what Steve wants to confess, which he very well might; as a solider in war.

It’s never been a secret that in his youth Steve loved Confession; it meant he could just say what he wanted to say; knowing he would not be judged, and throw off any weight hovering on his shoulders for starting violence in the schoolyard - and then go off and live his life. He finds now, he’s a little scared to admit to the lengthy list of the sin he’s been racking up._ It’s a Healing Sacrament_, he reminds himself,_ and for good reason -_ you are asking for God’s forgiveness and your own forgiveness.

He sits in the dark box on one side, the Priest sat in Jesus Christ’s place in the other; and he begins. He speaks of his insecurity at where to draw the line; and how he has to weigh if a choice of compassion for the enemy will ultimately lead to injury or death for his own men; he confesses to witnessing the execution of the SS officer in Italy.

“And what came after you witnessed this?”

“Satisfaction - at first, he’d hung children and left their bodies to rot.” Steve admits, “then the more I thought about it - the more it didn’t sit right. It’s a war crime - murder is still murder no matter the atrocities committed.” There’s silence from through the grate as though the Father is aware there is more to it. “I reported it,” Steve admits, “to command - but it still doesn’t feel like it was enough. I should have taken over and stopped it, should have acted quicker. A better man would have.”

He confesses to the lives he’s taken; and how he can’t remember some of them; and the men’s lives he hasn’t taken but he wants to out of his own anger and not duty to his country. He speaks about the Italian teenagers buried under a willow tree. He confesses to his own ignorance, which he is immensely embarrassed by; his naivety that the Nazi’s are not the only ones acting out of the realm of ethics. He confesses to how disturbed he finds he is the more he learns of the grey acts committed by his own country, and how disappointed in himself he is for not recognizing it until now; like the Japanese-American internment. He tells how he used to consider himself as one of the people, always aware of the trials and turns of the world - but at some point he became unaware. He confesses that he’s told lies, but doesn’t say what; and the guilt and worry he feels over his best friend.

“I feel like I’m failing him. No matter what I do, I’m failing him.” He finishes.” This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

He finds he craves penance - he’s never liked medicine but he covets the medicine needed to heal his soul.

“It’s clear you hold great guilt for these sins; most of which are sins you could say are unavoidable during these dark times, but I understand my son. Thank you for confessing. God forgives you, Jesus forgives you, but you must also forgive yourself. You say you carry guilt for your naivety and loosing awareness of injustice - I would like you to say a prayer for those souls that concern you. And recite one_ Our Father._”

Steve blinks, confused. “Is thatare you not going to give me penance?”

“I have.”

“I mean more.” He iterates. “Alms, fasting, acts of Mortification”

“I have given you the penance I believe you deserve.”

“The penance should make up for the harm done,” Steve disagrees, “and sow the seeds of a proper disposition that will allow the person to resist the temptation in the future. How is one _Our Father_ going to help me confront my recklessness and anger? The urge for violence?”

“Are you arguing with me, my son?” The voice sounds amused.

“No Father.” Steve says quickly, “it’s just - there should be more.”

“We are always hardest on ourselves.” The man declares, “It is as true as time. I have given you my penance; but if you insist - I ask you to pray for the men you are angry with, as having to pray for the well being of one who has hurt you can change your attitude to towards that person. Any penance should have as its goal the antidote for the sin.”

Something in Steve stalls, catches and then _snaps_ like a jammed mechanism of a pistol.

Nothing he says or prays will ever change his attitude when it comes to_ those men, _to_ that man _-**** that**** he already knows. He clarifies, because the Father has misunderstood. “The men who I’m angry at - it wasn’t me that they hurt.”

“Not from what I am seeing.”

“They didn’t hurt me.” Steve clarifies forcefully. “They hurt my friend - theythey tortured him Father, when he was a prisoner, to the point that sometimes he doesn’t even seem like my friend anymore.”

“You are suffering because your friend is suffering, and so, they have hurt you too. Pray for them, my son, that is your penance. And one _Our Father_, and the prayers for those you are concerned over. It is time for the Act Of Contrition.”

Steve cannot think of one in his own words at this time, so stuck on that unexpected, unwanted penance, so he uses one of the formal prayers, expressing true sorrow for the sins confessed. The priest, acting in the person of Christ, absolves him with the Prayer of Absolution. Steve crosses himself as it comes to an end, utters an “Amen.”

He leaves the box then, checks the time, and crouches again at a pew on his knees - he pulls out his rosary - says his _Our Father_, and then three _Hail Mary’s_ he was not given, and a _Divine Mercy Chaplet novena_ on a decade of his rosary. The priest exits the box, and he must hear the chosen prayers, the ones not assigned, as Steve mumbles them in the Latin he knows by heart; but he says nothing. It’s as though he knows Steve will not accept it. Steve, in a decision himself, decides to read Isaiah 1:18 once again - and does _not _pray for the soul of Armin Zola.

He never will.

. . .

It’s not been a good week. Where they’ve been used to a steady trickle of espionage, and were expecting a lot of ‘rain’ coming their way soon - they’ve instead got practically nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Three agents were apprehended in Budapest, and their base of operations stormed. Everyone else has gone to ground, scarpering for the hills unless they’re absolutely sure they’ve swept by under the suspicion. Two of those agents have already been executed, and there’s no plans to rescue the lone survivor. They’d likely be dead by the time they made it there anyway.

“And if they haven’t?” Gabe asks quietly. “And they torture them until they talk?”

“Probably won’t get that far,” Steve replies, “no doubt they’ve got a reserve in place. Hydra aren’t the only ones with cyanide.”

“You’re serious?” Someone asks, but Steve only has eyes for Peggy, who’s studiously looking down across the table. They haven’t spoken in several days. Her eyes flick up when she feels his eyes on her.

“They’re MI6, of course they have.” Steve answers, crossing his arms. “Four steps ahead of the rest, that’s the synopsis.”

“There is no MI6.” Peggy notes mildly, returning her gaze to the map as she marks something off. Code-breaking, Steve thinks, the kind he’s not cleared to see. Or if he is, which is probably; he doesn’t have the desire to look over her shoulder to see for himself. There’s a pit in his stomach that won’t quite leave after the whole affair, which has made Peggy keep her distance in response to it. She keeps looking at him, like she’s wants to clear the air; but the pit inside of Steve tells him to let the dust remain.

“Oh,_ come on_, Carter.” Dugan says.

“It’s what she’s trained to say, Dum Dum. That’s all. As far as all of the are concerned there is no intelligence service.” Peggy puts her fountain pen down on the table very carefully, and looks up; her eyes sparking. “Well, am I right? Or am I right?” He asks her. No more naivety.

“Would you like to speak privately?”

“No.” Steve replies, easily. “I’m good talking to you here, right now.”

She presses her lips together, utters a “hmm,” that’s half a sarcastic laugh. “There’s a reserve.” She admits after.

“Yeah.” Steve adds, crossing his arms. “Thought so. Every man breaks, right? Better he’s dead before that can happen.”

“Shit, _Cap_.” He hears a murmur of behind him, followed by a:

“we should run. I feel like we should run.”

“Those were Colonel Philips words, not mine - seeing as you’re so keen to attribute blame for every man’s fate at my feet, you might as well get it right.” Peggy retorts keenly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do; and clearly I’m not going to get any of it done with the atmosphere in here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know what it means_ you __passive-aggressive__ bellend._” Peggy snipes back sharply, and stands. She knocks her papers together into a pile.

“Fuck, here we go.” Comes a whisper.

“Peg”

“It’s Agent Carter. And I’ll not serve as _entertainment_ for your squad like a cheap_ theatre play._ If you want to have a conversation about it, then fine, I’m happy to have one - but not here. When I have better things to be doing.” She interrupts, right at his shoulder. Then takes a moment to stop, and lowers her voice. “And for the record, just because our moral clocks aren’t running exactly to the same time-stamp does not make me evil, and it does not mean_ I don’t care._ Get over yourself.”

_You get over yourself,_ blurts from inside him like a toddler and_what the fuck was justoh no._ The serum, the pit - together its the same thing. _Good becomes great, bad becomes worse _\- but either way, emotions become stronger.

Stop. That wasn’t fair. Fuck, _Peggy_. That wasn’t fair.

. . .

The next lot of espionage is found before it makes shipment, not even two hours later. An SOE agent dies, and several planes are shot down - there one minute, gone the next. There’s no burned carcasses of metal seared into the ground when their surveillance flies over several days later; so Hydra, and their blue energy. It leaves nothing behind, just a crackle on the radio before the black box is obliterated with nearly all of Lieutenant Sawyer’s coming intel.

His aide, Lionel, comes running into their working quarters. Just says: “It’s not coming. The shipment.”

Falsworth says: “I thought it was due”

Harris shakes his head. “Shot down. We think--we don’t know. Sawyer and Saunders are trying as we speak to pull more.”

“How many is that now?” Steve asks.

“Four. In the last week.” Harris admits.

“_Dammit_.” Steve curses, pressing the palms of his hands into the edge of the desk, head down. Dugan puts words to his very thoughts.

“How the hell are Hydra doing this? How the hell are they finding them, I mean, this has got to be them, right? We all know the Abewr is shit at what they do”

“That’s because the Abewr has been working against Hitler from the beginning, from up top.” Colonel Saunders says, coming into the room with angered eyes and red knuckles. Looks like he’s been punching something. Steve can’t blame him. He looks harried, and just past him he catches a glimpse of Peggy, with a pack and not quite in her dress uniform - she must have just come from somewhere.

“_What_?”

“Sir” Harris cuts in, nervously warning.

“_Please, _they might as well know." He declares, and turns to Steve to explain. "It’s been running longer than Hitler's been in power, and just because he took power in the government doesn’t mean he’s taken power there yet. There’s a lot of powerful men with their own agendas in place over there, including William Canaris.”

“Canaris is it’s head.” Steve states.

“Exactly. No intelligence agency should be that incompetent unless it’s purposeful.” Saunders declares. “We’ve a Polish agent, Halina, whose been meeting with him since 1940. We’re pretty sure the advance warning of Operation Barbossa came from him.”

_But__ he’s the **Head** of German Intelligence_, Steve thinks repetitively.

“Just because it’s under Hitler now; doesn’t mean it’s loyal to him. He just thinks it is. When done _right_ \- more can be accomplished from the inside than from the outside.”

“So he’s working for us?”

“He’s working for himself, but whatever he wants - well, it’s not the Nazi agenda, so we’ll take what we can. But this isn’t about them - this was Hydra. The loss. We’re sure about it, confirmation secured.”

“Sawyer is trying to put a lid on it.” Lionel adds after.

“Someone’s going to have to.” Saunders says sharply, “we can’t have this happen again.”

. . .

Apparently that someone is Peggy. He goes to her quarters to talk - to apologize for the all the shit he said, and she’s gone. When he saw her with a pack and half her dress uniform, he thought she was coming back from somewhere - but instead she was leaving.

“Do we know how long she’s gone for?” He asks Lionel, whose kind, helpful and someone who always tends to have an ear on all things. Even things you’d think he wouldn’t have.

“I’m sorry sir, that part is actually above me. I can - I can try and find out for you, ormaybe get coded correspondence”

Steve holds up a hand, “No it’s, it’s fine. What I needed to speak to her about isn’t urgent”_ isn’t war oriented _ "It can wait.”

_Dammit._

He writes her a letter instead, and slots it into her P/O box just in case it’s months and they slide by each other. He’d much prefer to do it in person, but as he’s learnt with the intel; nothing in this world can be guaranteed.

. . .

He prays Hydra don’t get their hands on anything else.

How are they doing this? Do they have a tether into their communication lines, or or do they have someone inside? Or are they just scarily efficient at weaseling out anyone who gets close - to them, or to the rest of the regime?

Steve thought they weren’t working with Hitler anymore, were branching off - and yet - they’ve been clearing the way for the Third Reich.

Or maybe it’s better to have the Reich, instead of anything else, in place for when they do inevitably take power? Now that's a thought.

. . .

“I’ve heard it’s only going to be for a week or so.” Fletcher says to him the next day.

“What is?”

“Agent Carter - when she gets back. I overheard you asking Lionel about it. She came by the press office to grab something before she left. Said she was doing a clean up - but that’s all she would say. And that she wouldn’t be long.”

“Where did the week come from then?”

Fletcher cants his head to the end of the filing office, “Secretaries talk.”

Steve’s back straightens. “You’re telling me the secretaries know more than _Lionel_, Sawyer’s _high-level, cleared for near everything _aide. And they’ve told you, from the press office.”

Fletcher blinks, taking that in a moment. It’s clear he hasn’t thought of it in terms of that phrasing before. “Yeah…I guess I am. Shwhy do I feel like that’s not good?”

. . .

When it comes it's not V-Mail; like the other it's triangularly folded, and stamped all over; a letter and envelope in one.

DATE RECIEVED: N/A

* * *

**ВОЕННО-МОРСКОЙ ФЛОТ ОТДЕЛ СВЯЗИ КРАСНОЙ АРМИИ**

* * *

(ЦЕНЗОР ШТАМП - ОЧИЩЕНО) 

K: CPT STEVEN RODGERS, OT: SGT JAMES BARNES  
189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON АДРЕС: BELARUS, FRONT  


Дата: APRIL GOD KNOWS WHEN

* * *

_Alright doofus,_

Steve scoffs, mutters: “dick.”

_D may have gotten over _ _excited__. D may also have done a Steve and jumped off a moving tank, after rolling under said tank and slamming a whole casing of dynamite onto it. D, like Steve, also has no concept of his own safety. D is having a swell time, he tells me from over my shoulder. _ _journée spectaculaire he says._ _ S should not be worried, he is not as bored - but he may still be stolen from us. I will make sure he is suitably shit from now on so we get to keep him._

_ I am perpetually proud of your _ paranoia. _Look at you using all the big words._

Steve rolls his eyes, _shut up Bucky, you __insufferable __know it all_. Steve has never forgotten **who** was the teachers pet out of the two of them.

_In just the last two days, our battalion has lost 60 men; more than 30 escaped, and in the middle of that is the injured; yet we've got them on the ropes. There is only enough ammunition to last the German's until evening; the soldiers have not eaten at all in three days, and many of them have frostbitten feet. We're getting there. It's - it's worse and better in different ways to Italy. What people tell about Stalinguard sounds...well it sounds like pure hell. Glad we weren't there. Glad we're American and I was sent to Italy instead._

_I’m looking at the stars, right now, are you? _ _Or are you stuck staring at concrete? Ma used to call it chakano gazing, and I got a letter from her the other day. She’s been telling me all the gossip. The Chakano Chordance goes on forever, and there’s lots more of them, hidden behind the moon. There was a divano between a bunch of the mothers at the house. They paid the full _ _ <strike>darro </strike> _ _dowry at home, so don’t think I have to worry about them making rent anymore._

_The doshman on the other hand - well that’s more complicated. They came out near the city, across between Indiana to Kentucky. Crazy, right? Ma tells me they did a lot of damage to the farm, but my uncle wasn’t quick enough to give as good as they got. There’s a lot of not quick enough going around. My cousin got a deferment. My other cousin is still a shithead._

_About the smooch - I hate you. If she gets in the family way I’m going to kill her. No, I haven’t. Ma gives me the word and I give her the word. It works._

_Alright, FINE. I’m working on it, okay, you pushy sonvuabitch. I just don’t know what to say to them, you know? Not a lot I can say - they ask questions I can’t answer. They’re still fucking kids, man. Sure you don’t want to write them for me? _

_What the hell you talking about to call her a bitch on accident? Not cause I’m protective, but cause I’m stunned at how fucking stupid you are to _ _accidentally_ _ toe yourself over the line. Or throw yourself off that cliff. There are no prayers that can help you. God is gone. God is dead. Jesus, our Lordly saviour is no-more. Goodbye sainthoods. You live in the land of Becca-rina-hell now. Good luck._

_You love my shitty jokes. If I could think of a shitty pun right now to throw at your face and leave you with, I would, but I’m too tired for that shit so I’m going to bed. Tell me about your arm, and this time answer me and stop avoiding the question. Hows the burn, does it still stink of that nasty cream like the rest of you? How’s the fucking bullet hole you overconfident asshole? _

_Don’t get run over by a car and die (so you stay safe too in other words) Right no, bed. For me. Now. Goodnight._

_Yours ever so _ _sincerely__,_

_Doofus’ friend._

* * *

Steve’s leg bounces against the edge of his desk, stifling a smile._ I miss you too, pal._ And then sets to work, searching quickly in his pocket for his notepad. He did not miss that middle paragraph. Where<strike>\--</strike>

“Monty.” He calls across the room to his third whose making detailed notes and plans on terrains from their latest - and only - information dump.

“Yeah?”

“My notebook.” Steve queries quickly. “Are you done with it?”

“Eryeah, mostly. It was a great help” He cuts himself off as he tosses it over and Steve captures it with quick, almost snatching hands. He starts flicking through it quickly, going straight to the pages with the spider with a toupee in it’s grip scarpering off up the page. “What is it?”

“Letter from Buck,” he notes briefly, flicking through until he finds the one of the big-nosed character jumping as he scrambles for his hair. There’s handwriting on the page opposite that isn’t Steve’s.

“Codes?” Falsworth adds, quickly, coming round the table. He’s the only one in the room today, and the only one apart from Dugan who knows about his particular request to their Sarge. “How? What did you organize in the end?”

Steve taps the page, using a stapler to weigh it down as his gaze scoots between that and the paragraph Bucky’s written in the middle, a mix of news of his family and something else.

“What - what language is”

“Romani.” Steve answers, “not exactly a well-known language, and mixed up together we figured the censors wouldn’t pick it up, or anyone else for that matter.”

On the page is a list of translations, scrolled straight and then diagonal where Bucky was running out of space. There’s another two pages of more words, spaced seven sheets apart, which is a lucky number. The fact that Bucky has implemented that thinking without likely even realizing makes something in Steve tickle - in how much he doesn't know about this part of his friend. In how much he has never realized how ingrained it is into him. He didn’t even know Bucky knew this much Romani.

“Roma--you mean like Esmeralda from the Hunchback in Notre Dame? A gyps”

“I mean Romani.” Steve iterates firmly but kindly, cutting him off. “The other word - it’s derogatory, so don’t use it.”

“It is?” Falsworth asks in slight surprise.

“Yeah. So I mean Romani; travelling folk.”

“Right, okay. Then how the hell does Barnes know Romani, of all things?”

“His mother’s side.” Steve explains, “he grew up with it, butthey didn’t really talk about it outside of the family so it’s, well, so-so. He knows stuff but can’t speak it.”

Falsworth frowns, “Ashamed?”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Steve says honestly, “but you know how folks are - prejudice and the like. They used to be the same with my ma, ‘cause she never lost her accent from the home-country. Buck’s ma didn’t exactly get an easy run of it either, so they didn’t talk about it when they moved to the city from Indiana. Wanting to fit in.”

He hadn’t really thought about it before, not until Bucky was biting the end of the pencil trying to think of useful words to scrawl down, but there had been inferments throughout their lives - of times Mrs Barnes wasn’t exactly welcome in their community. The very first time they met, so many years ago when they were so very young; Bucky had said to him they came into Steve’s district to shop instead because people were nicer to her there, than in his own. There were others too, ones that Steve never paid attention to, so wrapped up on his next big idea to live the life he wanted. The very idea of Mrs Barnes being excommunicated just for the crime of marrying Mr Barnes, outside of her enclosed community, had never really clicked before either. It must have been so hard. But clearly, just because she left that world didn’t mean she _left _it; doesn’t mean she didn’t pass some of her traditions on.

Seven pages. A lucky number. Balavas. A good luck charm. All thirty seven words written in cursive that Steve never knew existed. Bucky has his own list in his own book - of Steve’s mother’s Gaelic. He feels its right somehow, that this is how they’ve chosen to communicate - each in their own mother’s tongues.

Right - here we go.

_Ma used to call it chakano gazing. The chakano chordance goes on forever._

_Chakano _: stars. _Chordance_ : Intelligence; or that’s what they’re referring to it as as a rough translation._ Divano_ : meeting or discussion. _Darro_, already corrected to_ dowry _where Bucky clearly thought the phrasing might be too suspicious. It’s what they’re using as code for an exchange of money. _Doshman_ : enemy.

He rereads it again with the translation, reading between the lines of what his friend is saying.

_The star’s _ intelligence - the Russian’s intelligence - goes on forever, and there’s lots more of them _hiding_ _ behind the obvious. There was a meeting between the leaders at the base. There’s a payment that’s been made, a big one, for something._

For what? That’s the question. Very interesting.

_The enemy on the other hand - well that’s more complicated. They came out near the city, across between Indiana to Kentucky_

“Get me a map of the East?” Steve requests. Falsworth does immediately.

“That make sense to you?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, trailing his finger along the lines of terrain and boundaries as he lays it down. “He’s in Belarus right now, or what was Belarus. Kentucky is the next state directly South of Indiana; so state-lines…”

“Which means country lines.” Falsworth finishes, nodding, as he follows Steve’s finger. “Smart. This is good, this is really good, Steve. We’re not getting this intel from them.”

“No, we’re not.” Steve confirms to him and to himself. “Nice one, Buck. Nice one.”

Falsworth takes over the deconstruction, or the verbalizing of it. “Hydra attack on the border of Belarus and Ukraine then. A lot of damage. But the Russians…weren’t quick enough to engage. So they got through clear. Another blown checkpoint?”

“Maybe, or larger attack from the sounds of it. Damn” Steve curses, and on his other map; on the side; notes and circles that inference. That’s another convoy or something of some sort that has disappeared into and away from the impossible maze that is Soviet territory. Too big to search unless they know exactly where they’re going, and they already know Hydra have compounds in places the German’s don’t even hold right now. That’s what’s been alluded to from other data; namely from Antonio, and what may have been confirmed in Spain if Saywer’s intel dump would have made it.

“This bit,” Falsworth notes, frowning as he gets closer to the letter. “Is that intel, or is a suggestion on his part?”

“Which?” Steve queries, leaning back over._ Crazy right? There’s a lot of not quick enough going around. _He reads - huffs out a breath, considering. “He thinks there’s a inside man - what’s that saying? Once is an accident, ****twice**** ****is**** ****a**** ****coincidence****, three times is a habit. And how many Hydra manoeuvres do we know have happened in the East? More than fucking three.”

“Coincidence is the word we use when we can't see the levers and pulleys. ” Falsworth then quotes, to finish.

Oh, Steve doesn’t like that. Steve doesn’t like that at all.

. . .

Philips, armed with his side holster barely gives him a look as he re-enters the bunker from a Colonel’s meeting, until Steve steps into his path enough to stop him. He jolts to a stop, looks at Steve’s face, and knocks his head sideways; the universal notion for_ fine, follow me as I get ready for you to make my life more complicated._

“I think, I think we might have a security issue.”

Philips crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow as he kicks the chair sitting stride at his desk to make room for Steve to sit. The eyebrow had already been raised when Steve firmly closed the door behind him. “We’re in an underground bunker, seven feet below ground, with no visible security on the above streets to give us away. We’re secured on every exit, everyone needs a pass in and out, and rarely does anyone leave during daylight hours. We’ve got a unquestionable working front piece with the Bank of England and the only people who know about our location are the personnel in here right now, and the Prime Minister. Somehow, I think we’re clear.”

“With all due respect sir, you had an unquestionable working front with no visible security on the streets above during Rebirth, where even less people knew about it, and Hydra still forced an entry. So you might want to reevaulate that.”

“Christ.” Philips mutters, shaking his head, “you really don’t know how to mince your words, do you Rodgers?”

“Last time I checked my honesty was one of the few things you liked about me, sir.” Steve counters mildly, because Philips has evidently said that. The man harrumphs in agreement. “That’s an honest re-accounting of Rebirth. You don’t need me to tell you what happened there, again.”

“_Hydra,” _Philips counters _firmly,_ “got their entrance through Senator Brandt not fucking vetoing his guests properly, not from the SSR’s lack of foresight.”

“I’m just saying, sir.”

Philips gives him a flat look. “You know, you’ve grown a lot more balls than when you were skinny. I don’t know if I like that part. You didn’t used to question me.”

“I also used to be worried you’d kick me off the program, but I don’t exactly have to worry about that now, do I?. Besides, I don’t mean in the physical sense, this time.”

“Then in what sense do you mean, Rodgers?”

“Agent Carter’s gone to do clean up after we lost all that intel. She won’t be gone long, probably a week or so.”

“Well, yes.” Philips confirms, looking conciliatory, with put-upon patience.

“You know how I found that out? Not from anyone high-level, infact, Lionel; who is high-level didn’t know. I found out from Fletcher, who found from the secretaries; who apparently are known to talk. All I’m saying is; with all these Hydra strikes on our intel flow; don’t you think there’s a possibility, that - well, that we’re being a bit lax in some aspects?”

He remembers what Saunders said. _An agency can only be so __incompetent__ unless it’s purposeful. Oh boy._

Philips considers that for close to a minute.

“Hm.” He notes quietly, “you may well have a point. For once,” he glances up with a small smirk, “or twice. I’ll put some things in place.”

Lets hope it’s not too late.

“It’d be interesting to see the effect it has on intel flow, too, once you have.” Steve throws in, “Regarding what gets through and what doesn’t. It’d be very telling.”

“That it would.”

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: N/A

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

****WESTERN MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - **REDACTED**] _

TO: SGT. JAMES BARNES, FROM: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS  
SENDERS ADDRESS:  
189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON

DATE: STILL APRIL, ALSO GODS KNOWS WHEN, JUST LATER

* * *

_Hey loose-nuts,_

_Real neat hearing about the stuff from home, let your ma know to keep it up. It’s great hearing it, and what about you? Where’ve you been, what’s been buzzin’ cousin? And all that jazz? The food too, how’s that treating you? Do you have enough? I know how much you hate fish. Please tell D not to get himself blown up, or let you get shot for good measure either._

_I didn’t tell you in the last letter - I had a bit (a big one) of a rhubarb with Peggy on Tuesday - we’ve still not made up. And not from her side. It was about Greece -_ ** ** BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK BLACK** ** _\- I guess I didn’t think she’d have that perspective. Naive right, there’s that word again. Just like you said. I’m trying not to be, I do listen _ _occasionally_ _. Don’t mean to bring the mood down by the way, I just needed to talk to someone about it - and, well, it all ended kind of awkward with all the guys there witnessing it. Figured I’d get an objective opinion, if any of the details even make it past the censors. Probably not. I tried._

_I was really kind of rude to her. Still am being a little, and then she left to go get a _ _sannadh fhaisnéis. I’ve heard it’s a British delicacy._ _ This was after calling me a belI-end, which Monty tells me means I’m the head of a penis. They’ve really got this insulting thing down don’t they, the British? I think the serum part of me may have gotten a little out of hand in the heat of the moment and I snapped my cap, then kept on a’ snappin’. I’m an idiot. But she was also---I don’t know. Oh, I went to church yesterday. It was, and wasn’t as _ _satisfying_ _ as I thought it would be. I’m really not very good at this keeping the spirits high, am I? Ha._

_Well, you probably know me well enough to probably expect it. _

_Becca is kind of scary when she’s angry at you, isn’t she? Why I am only just discovering this I don’t understand, somehow she scares me more now than when she used to be taller than me. Probably all that _ _independence_ _. Remind me how you managed to get on her good side after _ _accidentally_ _ (or probably not _ _accidentally_ _ knowing you) calling her a bitch? I really do think I need help._

_ Hard to kill her when you’re over there and hard for her to get in the family way when Charlie’s just as far away, you loon. Are you writing the girls yet? Or are you still writing them through your ma? I’m not trying to be pushy, Becca just IS being pushy._

_Jack’s complaining about the weather a lot, and a bunch of his post when missing a couple of weeks ago. I think a present for his _ _uncailí_ _ was in there, did Jill get hers? Jack and Jill’s last name was Saywer right, in that old wives tale? Anyway, Jack lost a bunch of the birthday presents he bought, which is terrible, since there’s no way to get more. It’s hit him real hard, and he’s not likely to recover from the loss any time soon. Hopefully you’re more lucky for your brother’s birthday._

_Yours ever so _ _profoundly_ _ paranoid, with sincerity,_

_King Doofus, in charge of all loose-nutters everywhere._

* * *

. . .

It’s become protocol for those working in the SSR to only leave the base at night, or in the very early hours of the morning to keep foot traffic unnoticeable. If they have to leave in the day: then they come out from below the vaults of the bank; and out the grand entrance as though they’ve just taken money out. The most appropriate time to leave; even more so if you are leaving to another secure location is in the aftermath of an air-raid, when the city’s entirely empty and still under blackout warnings. Fletch is to leave to Pinewood Film Studios at this time.

Steve decides to see him and the three crates of footage out, as it’ll certainly be strange without him in the vicinity for a while. For now he’s on his way to the editing rooms with an Official from the Ministry of Information, waiting to pick him up by the Thames. They exit out one of the back exits, and walk down two streets for the pick-up so the official cannot identify where they emerged from.

“Keep well won’t you?” Steve says, slapping him on the back.

“I could say the same to you,” Fletch says as they then exchange a quick hug and handshake. “Don’t die in a firefight without me to get it on camera will you?”

Steve snorts. “Go enjoy yourself in your home away from home.” He says, and shoves him towards the loaded private vehicle. Pinewood was where he was trained up as a cameraman - way back before the war - he was saying only yesterday how strange it would be return.

Fletch grins, and announces: “Till we see each other next.”

“Till we see each other next.”

Steve waves off the taxi - wishing his new friend luck in the editing chair, and quickly goes to move back indoors. The city announcer still projects on a loop: _“Blackout is still in effect throughout the London area. Please wait for the all-clear. Your attention, please. All citizens shall remain indoors until further notice. Blackout is still in effect throughout the London area.”_

A suited man turns up the street Steve is heading back down to; and the fact that he’s out at this time reveals to Steve he’s another SSR agent either headed home or on a drop-off - and vaguely recognizes him; though can’t place a name with his face. He keeps his eyes away so as to not draw attention to him; looks up to observe the barrage balloons above him; just barely visible. Something catches his ear as Fletcher’s taxi gains further distance; that there’s another engine running. His eyes flicker down the street, trying to identify it though he knows it’s likely it’s the SSR agent’s transport. As his eyes drift, about to take the corner and take the long way round - the shadows in front of the man move - two. Steve see’s the glint of a knife - and one shadow jabs it three times into the agent - another grabs his briefcase - and they run. It happens so fast.

“Hey!” Steve yells, and the SSR man concaves, blood ballooning from his belly in the low light. He hits the ground hard, half on the road, half on the pavement. Steve starts running. The low hum of the ever-present engine _vrooms_, and headlights flick on from a Chevrolet Sedan just down the street. It peels off from the pavement - and the pair of men fling themselves in. The sound of the gear-stick shifting clicks - and the car reverses at speed away from Steve as he pelts it down the street. The tyres squeal as it drifts at a rounded skid, rocketing down to the corner.

He’s straight to the downed man, pressing his hand against the torn blood-soaked hole in his suit. The man gasps in pain, grey-faced - looks panicked.

“It’s okay” Steve assures, “I got youwe’ll get you inside”

The man grunts - begins clinging into his shirt as he recognizes Steve from his dress-uniform. He shoves him away. “The briefcase,” his gasps, “it hasblueprints in.”

Oh, shit. Oh, _fuck._

He shoves Steve away again, barks “Go!” at him. Steve pushes his way to his feet, skids across the pavement to bang on the ‘subway’ garage door - and pegs it after the car disappearing round the corner at the end of the street. “Someone will come out! Get their attention!” He yells at the man as he creases the corner - the headlights of the speeding car lighting up the blackout streets.

_“Blackout is still in effect throughout the London area. Please wait for the all-clear. Your attention, please. All citizens shall remain indoors until further notice. Blackout is still in effect throughout the London area.”_

He pegs it at full speed, using only the moonlight glancing off barrage balloons to see his way forward - his stiff dress jacket constrains him as he pumps his arms to go faster. He sheds it, abandoning the fabric on the rain-splattered street. He curves past and under Big Ben, then turns to follow the sound of the speeding car, sweeping down to grab a heavy rock from old rubble lining the road. The Chevrolet headlights shine upon the standing lanterns along the edge of Westminster Bridge in streaks as he chases them - he’s too far, and unlike in Brooklyn he doesn’t know these streets like the back of his hand; doesn’t know the short-cuts. He can only follow - keeping pace but slowly gaining ground. He heaves his arm right the way back - and launches the boulder at the back of Chevrolet. The glass smashes - and the car jerks as the driver jolts with shock from the driver’s seat. The volume of the engine picks up, the man’s foot pressing the pedal - and muffled curses from three voices. Steve puffs out a quick breath, _one two, one two_ \- powers through faster. He’s wearing the wrong shoes for this. Light catches on a face in the back seat, the man turns, sneering as he emerges from below the leather seat. The light catches on the barrel of a gun, and he swings out - darting - as it fires.

_Bang! Bang-bang! _A second man in the back seat opens fire too; and Steve’s darting two muzzles - swinging from left to right. He’s loosing the ground he made - he needs to stop them.

“Aa!” He yelps; a bullet tears through the skin of his upper-arm - _this fucking arm._ Pain radiates down it; setting off his other wound and sending an even hotter sheer through the ever-hot blister on his forearm. He’s going to start calling it his unlucky arm. Pretty sure he got shot on a Friday the 13th too. He needs a lucky seven, Christ.

He jolts his head left as a bullet spears through the space where the side of his face was. He doesn’t have his shield with him - but he does have his gun. He slaps his hand on the holster across his chest over his shirt, and what was under his jacket - pulling out his Colt pistol. He fires back once at the face visible in the glancing light and the man ducks back under the cover over the seat. If he’s right from his last count a couple of days ago - he has three bullets left in his barrel chamber. He changes his aim, speeding up again; and fires into the area of the car exhaust; something clashes and bursts; smoke billows out from the pipe; the Chevrolet jerks. Steve finishes on the bridge, off on the other side - the Chevrolet comes to a corner. Steve ducks and skids for cover behind a parked, abandoned taxi. Bullets smack into it as the spies fire from the seat again. He darts out again, curves around the corner after them - they’re further away again, gone from sight -_ where? _

He makes himself listen - and takes off again down Belvedere Road, and turns sharply onto Chicheley Street.

He rocks up his gun again - fires twice right as the driver curves the wheel to turn. The car jerks; skids; screeches. It crashes into another vehicle outside Churton Tea Rooms. Blood flows down his arm, but it’s already slowing as his skin and muscle knits back together. Another shot; fired right as the car crashed; clips him just on the edge of his thigh, his leg burns; and he trips slightly from the shot. He limps twice, slowing him down; then he’s moving again. Two figures emerge, hunched over and coughing from the back seat, limping and bleeding rather badly - they carry the briefcase. They fire in his direction, and he twists to avoid - out of bullets. He peers round as the men shout - and they run off foot. Now Steve can get them. The driver of the totaled car is slumped forward into the steering wheel; hair and back bloody, red splattered on the front window. A head-shot. Both Peggy and Bucky would be proud of him.

He slows minutely as he crests the next corner to ensure it’s not a trap to shoot him; and then legs it out. The back of a coat flaps in the wind, disappearing downstairs below the street. Steve spies the symbol above the railing - the Underground - except; this isn’t a subway station anymore if memory serves him right. It’s an air-raid shelter - they’re trying to escape into a dead end; no exit. A dead end full of civilians.

Steve darts down the stairs; hears yelling, shouting - screaming and crying; a commotion. He bursts through the doors, barreling against the hinges. The agent on the other end, trying to keep the door closed, slams into the wall and thumps into the ground. The other agent, at the center shoving his way through a crowd of dusty civilians, turns - he grabs one of the few children not evacuated from the city - a little boy.

“No no!” The mother whimpers; trying to grab him as he’s wrenched away from her. He can’t be more than ten. The man levels a gun, pressing it into the kid’s temple; arm wrapped around his neck; pressing the boy’s body to his to cover it. He’s starting to see a trend with Hydra.

“One step closer and he dies.” The man snarls; the faint tinge of an accent Steve doesn’t recognize.

Steve slows, and backs off. His eyes switch to the man trying to gain his feet from by the door; and grabs the man and does the same with his gun; even though the barrels empty. If he needs to kill - he doesn’t need a gun; just his hands.

“Ditto.” He says back; “let him go.”

“Don’t think I will.”

“Let him go or I’ll kill your fellow.” Steve warns.

“Then do it.” The man laughs harshly, “he’ll happily have died for our cause.”

The man in his arms tries to struggle and spit; Steve presses his arm against his windpipe and he chokes. _Well that kind of blows his whole plan._ This man won’t trade.

“Let the boy go.” Steve repeats.

“Step aside and allow us to pass - and maybe I will. At the border.”

“Not with that briefcase I can’t.” Steve says, “and not if that child leaves the bunker with you. Who are you?”

“Don’t you already know, _Captain Steve Rodgers,_ from Brooklyn. 39th Street on Tenth Avenue_?_” The man sneers, tipping his head up. Steve’s eyes widen. “Yes, we know who you are, American. We know all about you. As for us: Hail Hydra.”

Steve’s body hardens, and his voice comes out with the same strength his arms apply around the man; he makes himself stop - eyes darting to the briefcase, the boy, the Hydra agent in front of him, and the one in his grip. It will make no difference if Steve kills this man. He releases him; and slams him into the wall to knock him out. He turns back toward the man; takes a step forward - _how fast can he move? Fast __enough__ to--_

“Ah ah ah!” The man says, stepping back further into the crowd; then presses the pistol into the boys cheek, squishing skin.

“Mum!” He calls in panic.

Steve stops. “Alright.”_ Alright. Okay. ”_You walk out of here - after you release the boy. Let him go; that’s all I ask.”

“You people - you’re all weak.” The man spits, grinning, and takes a step towards the one exit as Steve steps aside. He motions for the people to stay calm. “And people call Captain America a hero, ha!”

The silent, murmuring crowd turn to look at him; mouths open. Steve shakes his head, “I hardly call honoring life over stolen blueprints a weakness.” He says firmly, “let him go. You’re not taking him from the bunker; you will release him to me at the door - I won’t follow you. You have my word.”

“The word of a spineless pretend-hero.”

“Whatever you want to believe.” Steve says, “do we have a deal?” The man hikes his head up at him. “Fine.” Steve goes to finish. “But know this, although you may escape this time - as long as men and women that fight for the idea that all people deserve to be free exist, you’ll always be hunted. We won’t let you win.”

Something comes over the crowd, subtle but in a forming wave from front to back. Steve doesn’t notice; eyes on the boy; trying to push reassurance through his eyes. He opens a hand out for him to grab onto when the man passes him over.

“You will die Captain. You and the rest of--” The man’s voice cuts off in a choke - and young woman from behind _slams_ a rock into the back of his head - and pushes the pistol arm away from the boys head.

“Tommy run to mum!” The women, the boy’s sister it seems, shouts and he turns to her; swinging the gun. A bullet fires out as he headbutts her; disoriented - the whole crowd converge on him; pushing and beating him to the ground. The other agent wakes up; and they grab him too - Steve calls a halt to it before they beat him too far; and they force the men onto their knees; holding their arms and shoulders from behind. Steve darts in as he gets a chance; grabs the main man’s jaw sharpish; wrenching and holding it open.

“Sir?” An older man, pepper-haired and wearing a tweed jacket, questions.

“Cyanide.” Steve explains; and pulls out the pill hidden in the tooth. He was right; and then man tries to fight them; trying to bite down before Steve can fully pull it from his mouth; but the brave men and woman have him in hand. Steve makes a point of crunching the pill under his boot; in full view, eyebrow raised at the guy.

“Thank you - all,” he calls out to them in the dusty rather dark shelter. “I apologize for putting you all in danger. But because of your bravery - we’ve just apprehended two Nazi spies on your country’s soil. You’re all heroes.”

Members of the public look from one another, and those that are still held by nervousness smile with a little water, while the rest of them look on at their fellowmen in pride. Someone taps him on the hip; he turns and the little boy is there, bracketed by his mother. His sister, on the other side is still holding a bloody rock, nose bloody and a forming black eye as someone else pinches her nose for her - Steve finds himself rather impressed.

He crouches to his level. “Are you alright? Tommy, right?”

The boy nods, and his mother smooths his hair back off his forehead from above. “I’m okay.” He lifts both arms; and he’s holding the stolen SSR briefcase in them. He offers it to Steve. “Are you Captain America?”

Steve smiles at him. “I prefer Steve Rodgers, but yeah. I am.”

. . .

_ BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, 17 _ _ TH _ _ APRIL 1944 _

_JOHN: Today_ _ we have an incredible story for you. Late last night, while the city was under black-out, the People have outshone themselves once again for their _ _perseverance_ _ and the fight in their hearts. Numerous reports have come in from the Waterloo Underground Shelter - as the people of London came together to defeat and prevent two Nazi agents from making off with _ _sensitive_ _confidential_ _ intelligence regarding the war-effort - aided by none other than Captain America himself. _

_Reports as to what this intelligence was or could be is unknown, nor how the alteration _ _originated_ _ \- what we do know is a chase was _ _initiated_ _ by Captain America after these infidels, and after forcing them to escape on foot they ventured into the Waterloo station; which in recent times is used exclusively as an Air-Raid Shelter. Inside the Underground was dozens and dozens of families; old, young and even some children taking shelter; and once the Nazi’s _ _realized_ _ they were trapped with Captain America right on their tail they decided to take the station _ _hostage_ _. _

_Were our citizens taking that laying down? No they were not! _

_After a rousing speech from the Captain, the inspired men and women struck; first with rocks and then with fists - and both agents have been successfully detained and the evidence _ _recovered_ _…._

. . .

Philips is furious. Practically apocalyptic. He also agrees, rather petulantly in private, that Steve had a point about security; after repeatedly screaming "No working from home!" at the entire SSR community several times.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: N/A

* * *

**ВОЕННО-МОРСКОЙ ФЛОТ ОТДЕЛ СВЯЗИ КРАСНОЙ АРМИИ**

* * *

(ЦЕНЗОР ШТАМП - ОЧИЩЕНО) 

K: CPT STEVEN RODGERS, OT: SGT JAMES BARNES  
189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON АДРЕС: BELARUS, FRONT  


Дата: WHO KNOWS WHO CARES

* * *

_Bellend of all bellends,_

_I love Peggy Carter. It’s official. We are bonded, we are one in the same; tied and stuck to the same bellend. You think the British can swear, wait till’ you hear some of the shit Illya’s been teaching me. I can’t wait to tell you how to call someone a vagina flap. You’re not the only one whose been snapping their cap, maybe we’ve timed it together? There’s been some shitty days here. Because of the fish. There’s so much fish Steve it’s terrible, and I’m hungry. You better be saving me all those Irish potatoes from the canteen for when I’m back to binge on or I’m gonna be mighty pissed. Speaking of piss I really need one. Sorry. I’m writing this on the line and have been holding it for NINE hours. Now I’m thinking about needing to piss again. Fuck. Shit. Fucking dammit Steve._

_There’s been good days too. I like the people here. They’re honest, and they don’t care about answers I don’t want to give them. It’s pretty neat not having to be on edge all the time in that way. I’ve been out as usual, am out now. I shot a guy from a mile away today, it was kinda’ speculator. I’m a bit proud in a morbid way - that’s probably not a good thing, huh? Now whose the Debbie Downer?_

_W_ _as it a nice church? A - like a big one, with big windows and that crap - or a smaller one. I can never remember if it’s the big ones or the little ones you like better - cause of the beauty, or cause the smaller the church the closer to God you are. Which one is it again? Mines the big ones, cause there’s more to look at when I get bored listening to the stupid sermons._

_Shame to hear about Jack. I don’t know about Jill. Sorry. As for our favourite chrome dome, I’m running my own test soon. I’ll explain what I mean when I see you, it won’t be long now._

_Lets be honest, she’ll probably find a way to do it just to spite me, same as when she started nicking stuff and didn’t nick me any booze to finish it off when I covered for her. ARM STEVE. NOW. I WILL NOT TELL YOU AGAIN. HOW IS YOUR FUCKING ARM._

_Shit. I really need to piss. Gotta go. Bye._

* * *

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: N/A

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - **REDACTED**] _

TO: SGT. JAMES BARNES, FROM: CPT. STEVEN RODGERS  
SENDERS ADDRESS:  
189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON

DATE: I'M AS CLUELESS AS YOU

_From one bellend to another,_

_What arm? OH YES. That arm._

_This overconfident asshole got shot in the arm again. The same arm. On Friday the 13_ _ th _ _. If that isn’t a bad omen I don’t know what is, Christ Almighty to all _ _hallelujahs_ _. Oops. I’m fine. The arms healing pretty damn well - though it still stinks of cream. Looks like you’re going to loose your bet. Not even going to be a scar it looks like. That’s what the doc’s say anyway._

_I look forward to taking all your money. Thanks for all that _ _non-existent_ _ advice about the Peggy situation by the way, jerk. Talk about being useless. I was hoping for a little _ _pretend_ _ support even if I don’t deserve it. _ _That_ _’s what pals do. A big church. It was really beautiful, like St Patrick's or St James’ at home._

_Okay._

_ Don’t worry about the chrome dome - just, be careful. Whatever you’re planning - please think properly about it first, Christ. I’m not the only overconfident asshole in this duo. Don’t risk yourself over something stupid. I mean it._

_Hope you’ve had a _ _magnificent_ _ piss._

_I’ll see you soon. We’ve got a bunch to catch up on._

* * *

. . .

_‘Come now, and let us reason together’ says the Lord_, Steve reads, sounding out the account of Isaiah as he sits at the bed in the room by the headboard.

He didn’t get out of private meetings and contingency plans with Philips until early this morning; about 05:45, which is normally his waking hour. He was sent to catch up on sleep under Philips orders, who was off on his way himself. He’s been working finishing up the report for the chase and apprehension since the afternoon, and now he’s finally had a moment to return to his bookmarked place.

_‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red crimson, they shall be as wool.’_

There’s a knock on his door, followed by:

“Is it safe to come in?” Someone asks from the doorway.

Steve’s entire body shocks up into excited straightness.

“I’m decent.” He answers, turning around. As he does Peggy, in her dress uniform and skirt is stood partially in the doorway. It looks like she’s just changed for decency’s sake, as her hair while held in place is not styled in her usual curls.

“Are you still feeling touchy with me?”

“No, no not of course not.” He answers standing and going to take her hands. He takes a moment, stopping, and realising that he in fact might not be welcome. “We can…a…disagreement on ideals we’ll call it,” a rather big one, though that’s not important, “but nothing too dreadful. Or, it wasn’t until I made it one. I’m real sorry, Peg. I don’t know what I--”

“I read your letter.”

“I’m still sorry. The serum, no matter what it does to me, is no excuse. That’s on me.”

She lets out a half-hearted smile, but seems satisfied with the apology. “Then may I come in?”

Steve nods, and as she enters Steve realizes she’s carrying two trays with dinner on them, and sets it on the small camp table in the corner of the officer’s bedroom. “You...you didn’t have to bring me dinner, I could have gone to the mess like everyone else.” Steve says.

“You don’t really want to do that.” Peggy replies, “you’re once again the talk of the compound. The words ‘hero’, another ‘medal of valour’, etc-era etc-era, are being tossed around. The other officers are either trying to bask in the reflected glow of your heroics or are jealous and would be sniping at you. They have cameras.”

“Oh great.” Steve mumbles sarcastically.

Peggy half smiles. “I recommend laying low until tomorrow, then with any luck the hoo-ha may have diminished. I heard Philips gave a rousing speech about the new rules.”

“If you count climbing on a table and furiously shouting for twenty minutes a rousing speech, then sure. He also told Morita he’d shove a radio antenna up his ass when he didn’t shut up quick enough.”

Peggy hums, clearly amused. “Yes, that sounds about right. The important thing is you stopped them from making off the blueprints. Thank god you were there.”

“Guess you can thank god for a lot of things recently.” Steve mumbles to himself.

Peggy comments. “I was hoping we could talk.”

Steve offers her the stool by the table to sit. “Perhaps we could eat and talk?”

“That sounds great.” Peggy says, and takes a seat. She passes Steve a fork, and he places the tray over his lap on the bed. This is almost like a date, he thinks. She glances at the closed bible left by the pillow. “Were you praying?” She asks.

“Just studying. As - as part of penance.”

“I see.” Peggy says awkwardly. “I’m afraid I don’t know much of Catholicism, or much of any scripture - it was never part of my main education.”

“That’s alright.” Steve says. “II went to St James last week - went to Confession. You speak; the priest absolves you in God’s eyes - sometimes; when it’s right - they assign you penance so you can learn from your actions. Reparation, prayers, giving alms; repenting on the rosary - that sort of thing.”

“And the priest assigned you to study scripture?”

Steve opens his mouth to say yes, but then decides to tell the truth. “Wellum, no. He did assign penance - to say a prayer - and pray for others that I spoke about in Confession. And I said my prayer - but; it wasn’t enough I didn’t think so I sort of gave myself my own penance.”

Peggy purses her lips to keep from smiling Steve thinks, “Isn’t the whole point to listen to the Men of God when they give advice? And not ignore them because you think you know better?”

A small dig, but he certainly deserves that one. The small smirk on Peggy’s face tells him she knows it, but is also teasing. He feels like maybe they are getting back to what they were.

“I did listen,” Steve defends, cutting up his meat. “I onlyone of the penances he gave I couldn’t do, so I’m doing this and others to make up for it instead.”

“What was it you couldn’t do?” Peggy asks curiously as she finishes chewing.

“He…” Steve cuts. “He wanted me to pray for the men I am angry with; the men I want to kill out of--not out of duty we’ll say - as it will allow me to see them differently.”

“Schmidt?” Peggy guesses.

Steve nods. “Zola, mainly.” He adds. “But lets not shall we speak of something else? Forgetting last week and all that before; if we can? Put it behind us?”

“I’d like that.” Peggy says.

“I wanted to ask - I’ve not…I’ve not done this before but - with us, where do we go from here?”

“Where would you like to go?”

“I want to know more about you,” Steve says immediately, “so tell me something. You know how I got started in this, how did you?”

“Well,” Peggy says, and puts away her plate half finished. She lays her hands on her lap, rather stiff, Steve notices, like this is something she doesn’t like speaking of. “I was going to get married.” Steve blinks. “I know - not what you were expecting - I was eighteen, and it waswe were courtingbut it wasHe was a good decent man, called Fred. He worked in the Home Office, a safe essential desk job. He always said a quiet life was a privilege, and I suppose I convinced myself to believe that was true. My mother very much approved. My brother thought I was settling. He did not hold back on telling me his opinion regarding it.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Steve says.

“II don’t anymore.” She says, and then swallows; Steve goes to stand - to go to her, then realizes there’s no room; so shuffles over on the bed. She lets him, then settles down beside him on the edge; and he curves a warm arm around her for comfort. She tenses for a moment, then allows it; leaning it. “It’s been four years - an infinitely long time in war-time - and I’ve lost people since but”

“It’s different. When it’s your brother, when it’s family. It’s different.” Steve says, squeezing her arm. He always thought, or known deep down that she’d lost more than she let on. He remembers what it was like to loose his ma, how utterly heart-wrenching and destroying it was. How he never wanted to get out of bed and live in a world that existed without her in it for nearly a year.

“I don’t speak about him a lot, as you can obviously tell.” She clears her throat; controlling her composure. Her hands return to her lap; and she holds herself in a way that almost reminds him of Bucky now. “I was working at Bletchely Park at the time as a code-breaker - this was before the war - but we knew it was coming - it simply wasn’t declared. Michael was already enlisted; an officer. He told me often outright, in public, more than once that he believed I was giving up and accepting a future I didn’t want merely to make my mother happy. He always said I was meant for more things, that I was meant for a fight.”

“I have to say I agree.”

Peggy huffs, “I suppose I’d convinced myself that code-breaking was adventure enough. Then I was recruited by the SOE. I told them no. He was furious when he found out - told me I should sack off the wedding and take it. I told him no, as I told them. Then - he died on a mission - I don’t know the details - just received the telegram. But it changed - maybe it was the fact that he wanted me to take it - or maybe it just opened my eyes to realize he was right. He always knew me too well. So I called off the wedding. I went back to the SOE - and when I asked; I found out he was the one who’d recommended me. So I got trained - and I went out.”

“I’m sorry I’ll never have the chance to meet him.” Steve says, squeezing her arm.

“Yes well - you he probably would have approved of.”

“Why? Cause of my rugged good looks?”

She leans into him, and rolls her eyes. “You’re spending too much time with Dugan,” she tells him, “no, he’d like you because you encourage me to do what I wish; and don’t put constraints on me where others would.”

Steve hums, “if you say so. I still think it’s my good looks.” She laughs, and relaxes her hands a little. “And the SSR?”

“The Spanish Civil War.”

“The what?”

“The Spanish Civil War in 36’” Peggy clarifies, “I wasn’t involved in anything at all back then obviously, I was still growing up myself, but that’s what it stemmed from. The Third Reich decided to support the Nationalists and Franco.” Steve nods, knowing this already. “The Hydra-Abteilung as it was known then were among the German’s sent by Hitler to assist. They were sent to Guernica; they destroyed the city.”

“I saw the photos. The newsreels.” Steve says. It was the same year his mother had died. The place was totalled, and with the majority of Guernica’s men away fighting the victims of the bombing were mostly women and children. “I went to go see Picasso’s painting four times when it came to the Metropolitan Gallery.”

Peggy nods.

“Hydra was the ones who bombed it?”

This time she shakes her head. “No. They came equipped with powerful exoskeleton battle suits; tanks and soldiers. It was never bombed - just made to look like that so they rest of the world wouldn’t discover the level of weaponry they had. I believe the Luffewaffe dropped empty shells and incendiary projectiles into the wreckage to make it look like it was them. Then claimed responsibility and let the rumour spread. That was the Reich’s first field test of Hydra’s weaponry.”

“Oh…” Steve says, “I see.”

During my first year as SOE, when I was undercover I found the footage of the slaughter and smuggled it out of Germany. January, 1940. That’s how I met Philips - and by February he’d recruited Howard onto the side. Then came Erksine - and, well, you know the story from then on.” She looks at him, turning her head. “Does that answer your question?”

“Most definitely.” Steve murmurs. They are very close for a long moment, looking at each other. He can smell her soap. Peggy purses her lips, and stands. Steve looks away, backing off. “I’m sorry - did Idid I do something wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong.” Peggy says, stood with her back to him. She walks to the door. “So stop apologizing, I don’t need any more. I was happy with your one. I’ve been told how very hard won they are.” She locks the door with a click, then picks up a stool and slots it under the door handle.

“Peggy?” Steve questions.

“You should move your bible.”

Steve blinks. “Oh, should I?”

“Yes.” Peggy says, taking off her jacket. She undoes her buttons, exposing her neck, collarbone and -_ oh_. “And turn it face down.

. . .

When she kisses him, something alights within him like nothing ever has before, and when they go further it's not like he's falling through the air; at one with the glorious clouds or the sudden rise from his parachute - it's like he can fly. When he's with her, it's like the third missing piece in the jigsaw of his life slots it's way in; a perfect fit. His ma's theory of: '_There are some people who can hear you speak a thousand words and still not understand you. And there are others who will understand you without even saying a word.’ _

_Peggy, unknowingly, has stepped into the hole his ma left behind; and he welcomes her with everything he has. It's meant to be. He wonders if he's stepped into Peggy's brother's spot to match. He hopes so in a way._

He wants her so much. She wants him back. He undoes her brassiere; she laughs, and he kisses the laugh off her lips.

. . .

_He blinks - and here he is, stood in front of a wall marked with painted x’s. There’s blood splatter on the ground in front of him and chipped brick lining the floor of the wall like dust, the wall littered with bullets. When he looks down there’s bullet shells at his feet._

_He blinks again, the sunlight flaring._

_There’s eight people in front of him; and gun in his hand. The line goes like this: A Hydra guard, a Hydra scientist, a German solider, the French Resistance fighter near Elodie’s farm; the one who tried to assault young Helene, a stooped old man with a cane; eyes tired and world-weary, Falsworth, a shivering housewife; her innocent son, and then - his mother in her nurses uniform; devout and innocent._

_“Wha”_

_A hand claps onto his shoulder from behind. Steve glances behind him but the hand has no body - just a glowing light vibrating with flares of life. The voice of god speaks behind him:_

_“You become worse than the sinner if you fail to correct him.”_

_His body moves without jurisdiction of his mind. _

_“No. Wait, no. We - I don’t kill prisoners.”_

_The Lord repeats himself. “You become worse than the sinner if you fail to correct him.”_

_“And sin myself? No.” Steve argues. He’s arguing with the Almighty, who does he think he is? “Correct him by imprison_

_The gun fires. The guard drops._

_Steve stares at the dead body on the ground._

_“He who sacrifices to any other god, other than the LORD above shall be utterly destroyed.” Says the ringing voice behind him, speaking the scripture he knows well but often ignores - Steve’s arm moves to the side._

_He pushes back, not ready to kill again; trying in vain to regain control. He is not a puppet. He is not God’s puppet, he’s not the serum’s puppet; he’s noone’s puppet. No God is not wrathful like this. He’s not._

_The hair on the technicians head recedes, he grows a little plumper, metamorphosing into a familiar face to encourage his vengeance; to encourage him towards the trigger. Spectacles begin to form from behind the man’s ears, and he’s not there yet, but Steve can see the resemblance to a 1941 photograph on a lone table. He dies before he can finish the change into the man his best friend screams about at night. Steve takes an involuntary step to the right, gun moving with him. He is at the German solider and the Resistance fighter._

_“When God wants to judge a nation, He gives them wicked rulers. He is judged. You are witness.”_

_No. This isn’t _ **_**bang!** _ **

_“However he would not listen to her,” Samuel 13:14 says, “since he was stronger than she, he violated her and lay with her.”_

_“This is vengeance for a crime not completed.” Steve says._

_“Yes, but you were not there to stop the next, or the previous. You let him go once when I led you there to stop him, do not permit it a second time.”_

_“This is wrong.” He says, even as he fires._

_Falsworth. He looks at Steve and God with fear; staring horror struck over his shoulder._

_“No!” Steve shouts now. “He is my friend. He’s a good man, he’s innocent of crime and heavy sin. He is not - you are not God.” He snaps sharply - the hand on his shoulder presses firmer. “God is everlasting love, and faith, and compassion, he does not kill with out reason. He is merciful.” He quotes John 4:8: “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. You are not Him.”_

_The light behind him laughs, then flares. it’s red fire not white evangelical light behind him now. He can see now as Corinthians 11:14 speaks through him: And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light._

_“No, I am not.” Says The Devil, who is also a Great Dragon of Revelation. “But funny, that you believed I was for a moment. Maybe you’ve already fallen further than you think.”_

_Steve’s hands cock the gun, reloading, levels it at Monty. His mother at the end of the line begins to call for him, the young boy starts crying._

_“Steven, look at me sweetheart, look at me; you are good. I’m here. Look at me”_

_He tries but he can’t no, stop.”_

_“Don’t you know your revelations, boy?” Satan asks, and begins reciting; and it’s sickening. It burns within to hear the sacred words coming from his fiery lips. “But for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable. As for the murders, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters and all liars; their portion will be on the lake that burns with fire and sulphur, which is the second death. This is their first,” Satan says, “it is the kinder of the two. Do it.”_

_“No!” Steve shouts, “not for you!”_

_The vague background of forest bursts up into a fire cyclone; it swirls around them all; hot and smoky and cursed. Shells go off - tanks fire. He’s trapped in a circle of his own sin._

_“Oh?” Lucifer says, “how about for the Father we share then?” The red flames turn to white again._

_The hand leaves Steve’s shoulder and raises it straight, always in his eyeline; and points to each one in the shooting line in turn. Steve makes himself think manically, trying to find some way to dispel it._

_“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.” He recites. “It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered,"_

_“Satan’s fiery arm, lighting up and burning the skin of Steve’s cheek lands on the guard - “murderer,” he notes, then it points to the Hydra technician. “The idolater of science;”_

_“it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I”_

_“It continues along the line from dead to still living, “detestable and another murderer - like you - in the face of war”_

_Steve perseveres, “II reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. And now three remain,” He repeats to himself, “faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”_

_Satan points to Monty. “Your ‘friend’ - he is faithless; the sexually immoral; the cowardly, a sorcerer.” He points to the housewife; and he see’s she’s wearing a Black Madonna associated with St Sara, the patron saint of Roma on the crest of her neck. It points to the boy, “this boy stole from his neighbour and lied about it”_

_“That’s not enough to condemn him, none of this is enough to”_

_It interrupts him, hissing in his ear. A forked tongue tickles his ear, and the touch scalds. “And your mother; she lay with another before the sanctity of marriage - but I think you might already know that; you don’t remember your father do you?”_

_“He died in the war; mustard gas when I was just a baby.”_

_“Did he?” It hisses, “just because she wore a ring on her finger doesn’t mean she had one when you were conceived.” Then it whispers ‘sexually immoral’ at his mother until he snaps. He twists round and looks at the full face of the creature in front of him, regaining control. The flames burst red and tall, furiously burning and hissing at the air like snakes of flame and fire. His arm goes down, hard and with complete strength._

_Satan catches the arm mid descent, it stops in it’s track and _ ** _ **CRACK**_**_. The bone breaks, the arm of Friday the 13_ _ th _ _. The cursed arm. He’s not strong enough - the touch of Lucifer burns a handprint into his forearm; he feels like his eyes are burning away out from his sockets._

_He forgets it was Hydra’s blue energy that burned him so deep. This feels real. This is where it really came from._

_It tuts at him like an errant child with a temper, which he’s always had. “Not until you are finished.”_

_It slams his arm down and twists his body back to the firing line, both hands on his shoulders. His arm smarts, and when he looks away and at it instead his arm has blistered enough he can see muscle and bone. Satan massages his shoulders encouragingly, bending close, like a baseball coach would a player right before the last inning. _

_“Go on boy. Finish.”_

_The feeling of his body fades and dulls and the touch on his shoulder sends tendrils of darkness within him; the fire cyclone rages. His arm raises without his consent again. He says no to it, he says no to his arm, to his trigger finger. It doesn’t matter. The bullet still goes off - and again; and again. He’s crying when he comes to his mother, already having murdered a child. _

_“She’s mine too.”_

_“I love you.” She says. “Always and forever.”_

_And he shoots her too - blood blooming on the crest of her heart; dribbling blood as she blinks and falls._

_Satan quotes Peter 2:4 next: For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but cast them into Hell and committed them to chains of gloomy darkness to be kept until the judgement - why would he spare you?”_

_It’s the last thing he hears - the red fire behind flares, the tendrils on his shoulders snaps away - the fire snuffs and bricks fall and fall and fall until he’s buried beneath them. His head bleeds, wet on his temple and cheek; his legs pinned. The he rest of him is crushed under the weight of a building - of stones. It’s dark, there no crack of light and he hears jeers and shouts; and more weight falls; he realizes people are stoning him. _

_No no, no - help me. It’s dark and cold and _

He wakes. He’s already stood, moving, and out the door. The other lump in other the bed turns over, uncovering themselves. “Steve?”

He waves them down, and locks himself in the underground bathroom, barring the cubicle.

“Steve?” Peggy calls less than ten minutes later, knocking on the door and then barging her away in with clothes but only one shoe on. Steve’s crying, panting for breath, digging his hand into where the bullet clipped his thigh only a day ago.

She goes to her knees and hugs him tight. She then expressly unpeels his hand from the thigh of his muscle with a distraction so he doesn’t notice, and when he does - holds it to her heart, kisses the knuckles. She lets him catch his breath over her shoulder.

“You’re okay, Steve. “ She declares in a voice that makes him want to believe it. She rubs his back. “It was just a dream. You’re okay.”

. . .

He goes back to St James the next day, finds the same priest. “I wasn’t entirely honest last - I didn’t realize it, but I wasn’t.” He tells him quite frankly - “I need more penance. And no prayers for the men who tortured my best friend. I need something else.”

“It is not a matter of giving you another penance if you refuse to do the last one. You may confess again, and I can give you additional penances - but my initial penance remains.”

“I can’t do it. I won’t.”

“Can’t and won’t are one in the same. It’s a choice. If it is still guilt you struggle with my son perhaps--”

Steve leaves. _No, he won’t do it._ He needs to find something else.

. . .

He rubs at his arm beneath his suit. He checks it every morning; and it’s mottled but mostly unblemished now, not blistered in a handprint. He reminds himself again, it didn’t happen; it wasn’t real - tries to wave it off.

_And lo, the angel of the LORD appeared to them, and the glory of the LORD shone around them, and they were terrified._

Steve is terrified.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, it does come eventually! I love you all and welcome to all my new readers in the last chapter. Let me know what you all feel in this next instalment of Steve's antics - and he's supposed to be not getting into trouble in London. It seems like he can't help himself. Looks like he got into some different (good/fucking great) kind of trouble with our Miss Peggy too...;) 
> 
> Next chapter we get Bucky's version of the month of April, 1944
> 
> REFERENCES:  
ABEWR : German Intelligence Service. Run by William Canaris, who is known to have cried the first time he saw evidence of what was happening to the Jewish People in the Reich, and who secretly worked against the Nazi agenda from within. More on him later.  
TRIANGLUAR LETTERS : The triangular fold was a result of the shortage of postcards and envelopes in the eastern front. So in the first months of the war, the Soviet soldiers invented a new format that was a letter and its own envelope in one. The censors in the USSR were typically more humane than those of the West, it would seem, and often would let the letters go to the recipient instead of cancelling them completely.  
CHROME-DOME - 40s slang for someone whose bold. (i.e Karpov)
> 
> . All the other references should be explained in the chapter.


	32. PART 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Steve was the high-flying bird; in flight but never an Icarus - Bucky was the deep roots. But tonight his limbs feel cut off. Chopped away. He feels like a pawn.
> 
> He wonders what the Archangel Michael would think of him now. Where would he lie on the scales of justice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: A MONSTER of a chapter ahead. So find somewhere nice and warm to settle in - you may be here a while.

BUCKY

.

DATE RECIEVED: 08TH APRIL, 1944 - FERRIED WITH SSR MAIL

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - _ ** _ **REDACTED** _ ** _] _

_ TO_: WINIFRED BARNES _FROM:_ SGT. JAMES BARNES

4429 ELIZABETH STREET, BELL GREEN. N.Y. ****LOCATION REDACTED****

_DATE: _26TH MARCH 1944

* * *

_Hi ma,_

_Don’t be silly, you were super quick even before you learnt to write. The twins can’t date, don’t let them - they’re too young. Threaten to take away their Frank Sinatra record and they’ll stop _ _skiving__. Don’t ask me how I know that, but trust me, they’ll do anything to make sure get their nightly fix. Makes sense, Mr Skye always was a bit smelly - that’s probably why she’s the only one who serves up front at the cake counter. Keep telling me about the neighbourhood underpants - my sense of humour has never moved past poop no matter how old I got._

_How low are you on lettuce and food? Taking in your dresses again low , or rent low or just sorta’ no heat for the week low? Steve’s not in New York now, obviously, so none of our rent needs paying. We’ll cancel the apartment. I’ll divert the rest of my wage your way as well as the usual deductions I send. I don’t need it here. It’s $78 dollars a month, so you know your gettin’ the right amount when I change it when I’m back in _ ** **BLACK** ** _. That’ll help right? I’ll send it, I swear. _

_Did it storm? Were your tingle and toes right? I didn’t know I used to do that…was I ever actually right? How shitty of a conductor was I? _

_It kinda’ is toppety top secret, yeah. Look for Captain America in the news? Can I say that? I think I can say that. Someone came by and told Becca the rest - maybe you could try talking to her again instead of hearing half the story from Lily? Worth a try. I’m staying in one place for a little bit, so I might have time to write more. I’ll try. It kinda’ is making me really happy when you write. Keep sending them to where you’re sending them - Steve will forward them to me._

_I have a super weird question for you. Can I hit you with it? Do you remember you used to talk about that thing with nana - about controlling your dreams? Lucid dreaming I think you called it; and that you were trying to do it like how your Aunt told you she used to practice. Nana called you a - well I don’t need to say what she called you but she thought it was all _ _baloney__. I told you it was a weird question. Do you remember how you’re supposed to do it? I’m asking for a friend._

_I’m keeping my hair short. Can’t be bothered with the Blycream though, and I’ve got the stubble you hate - just because._

_Love you,_

_Bucky_

* * *

. . .

_ 34 miles East  _ _ Sychëvka, Monastyrschinskiy Rayon, Russia I  _ _ 54° 11' 17" North, 31° 42' 42" East _

The others all slap him and D-Dynamical Dynamite - as he has been now aptly dubbed, on the shoulders and backs, and wish them all the usual sorts of well - and a little of the not usual. It’s probably good the crewmen at the airport don’t speak a word of English.

Dernier slaps them all back just as, if not harder; and hugs a few for a good measure - and promises he will not be good while they are away. He sends a letter out with Falsworth to pass on to Peggy - whose been trying to locate where Dernier’s family has relocated to for him. She’s going to try and smuggle it in the post to them if she’s right. There’s four places Dernier reckons they could be - and with their original house already been identified as empty - they’re going with the next best bet - his wife’s parents. Bucky hopes it gets to them, and he gets something back. It’d be really swell for him to find out how big and tall Amelie is now; if she’s talking up a storm or as shy as a button; and whether she’s a good-un or a terrible rascal like Dernier is himself.

Bucky, on the other hand puts up with the physicality admirably, he declares quite thoroughly to himself through his only slightly stiff back and smile. Steve gives him one too - but very much looks like he barely restrains himself from a good old hug.

“It’s not goodbye forever, you doofus.” Bucky says to comfort, while also to distance himself a little. He loves Steve’s hugs, even more so now when he’s not so bony that he jabs Bucky in all the wrong places - but he’s a little tenser today and doesn’t think he’d deal well with all that weight around him. The slaps are a good compromise. He punches Steve in the arm. “You’ll see me in a month. Cool your jets.”

“Yeah. I know.” Steve replies, and punches him back, automatic, but lightly. “Just be careful.”

“Don’t win the war until you’re back here, huh?”

Steve breaks out in a small smile, “Exactly.” He says, and parallels Bucky in their last goodbye; taking the spinning salute this time.

“I’m not saluting you back.” Bucky tells the back of his head right as he turns back to wave - “you don’t deserve my respect.”

Steve changes his spin and swears at Bucky with a single finger at the small of his back. Dugan guffaws and knocks Bucky’s head on his way past with a well timed _thwack__._ Falsworth smiles to himself. Morita and Gabe are already on the plane.

“Dick.” Dugan calls out the side of his mouth.

“Asshole.” Bucky gives right back.

“Harsh, Buck. Harsh!” Steve calls over his shoulder in their own conversation.

“Maybe loose some of that stupid and I’ll be nicer.” Bucky returns in French as Dernier swings an arm over his shoulder to wave, and gives Dugan one last high-five. Bucky tries to edge away but Dernier keeps his stance loose and relaxed until Bucky lets the same sink into his shoulders. He turns to Dugan as their two hands move away from each other. “Keep an eye on his arm for me, will you? Make sure he keeps it clean and doesn’t get himself motherfucking shot again.”

“Ma’m yes ma’m, Missus Rodgers. I’ll keep an eye on your dutiful husband for ya’.”

“Shut up.” Bucky retorts at Dugan’s retreating figure, who at least gives him a backwards thumbs up to confirm he will.

“Ne pensez pas qu’il vous écoute Mme Rodgers.” (‘Don’t think he’s listening to you Mrs Rodgers.’)

“Jesus_ S_ Christ. Not you too.” Bucky mutters as Dernier laughs gleefully.

. . .

What if something terrible happens? They left each other - and Steve got big and Bucky got broken. Now they’re leaving again<strike></strike>

Bad things happen when they’re not together.

What if something terrible happens?

. . .

His first day he’s useless. The second day is worse. Halfway through the third doesn’t bare thinking about - they send him from the line before he does more damage to their defence than he already has.

They’ve paired him with a man who Bucky eventually realizes is called Pushkin Bykov, who introduces himself in a stream of Cyrillic Bucky is utterly perplexed by - followed by more streams as he snaps and yanks Bucky when he continues to stare at him blankly. What?

He doesn’t know where he is, what he’s supposed to do - and when he makes guesses of which movements Bykov is directing him to do - they’re normally wrong. A Soviet solider dies next to him, _because of him_ \- because he wasn’t in the right spot at the right time. He’s so confused. Fuck these guys.

Karpov, when he sees and hears of it looks a kind of disappointed and aggravated Bucky can’t fully interpret, which he can’t blame him for. Clearly he’s rethinking this entire training and diplomatic placement if Bucky’s going to be more hindrance than help. Fuck. He wouldn’t mind going back to London to see the rest - but, he doesn’t want to go back not even half a week in as a complete and utter failure.

“I think we might be going home sooner than we thought, Jacques.”

“It can’t have been that bad.”

“I’m amazed I haven’t been struck off or court martialled D. It was fucking awful. They operate totally different from - from how I was trained - different placement, spotting so whenever I try and guess I’m wrong and I can’t fucking understand what they’re saying to do to be able to do it - so how am I supposed to know. ”

“Are ‘ou trying?”

“What?”

“Are ‘ou trying to understand them,” Dernier repeats, “_properly_, or are ‘ou trying to sail by with ‘e bare minimum?”

Bucky splutters, “Of course I’m trying! Bykov isn’t exactly trying to be fucking helpful with_oh_.” He realizes he was kind of expecting them to adjust to him; and not that he would have to adjust his own rigidity for them.

Dernier gives him a conciliatory look. “It was like this when I joined -” He explains, “at e’ beginning. Only Gabe and Steven made e’ point of trying to learn properly to have con’a’ve’sations with me. ‘Ou probably didn’t notice because ‘ou already understood a bit more - from ‘our old girlfriend. ‘E rest were content to sail by with Gabe’s translations for ‘e first month and a half, until the Capitaine threw ‘es dictionary at their heads and told them It waswasn’t good enough an’ to ‘buck up and learn’ when they couldn’t read signposts enough to’a tell what direction they should be going in.”

Bucky doesn’t remember that at all. “He did?”

Dernier hums in affirmation. “’Ou werevery tired then.” He says diplomatically, as though it’s an acceptable excuse.

It isn’t. That’s code for - when you slept you were freaking out and pointing guns at your friends - so you decided to stop sleeping altogether and then didn’t try to engage out of anything but protocol. You were entirely oblivious to everything else. Commando internal politics most of all.

“It is very lonely - and very confusing to operate when ‘ou can’t enter ‘our input - or understand American off-the-cuff manoeuvres ‘ou have not been taught - e..especi’ally when Dugan speaks only in slang.”

Oh shit. He hadn’t---

“It e’s very frustrating, when pe’ple do not try as hard to understand ‘ou as ‘ou are of ‘hem.”

“I..right. Shit, D. I’m..I’m sorry I didn’t notice that.”

The man shrugs, “is fine. Steven noticed for ‘ou, and ‘ou can’t catch everything--”

“---I should have caught that.” Bucky disagrees. The second thing he hates, directly under being left alone, is being purposely left out of things. It’s rarely happened to him - though it happened to Steve near every week - but the single time it did happen - it threw Bucky off for weeks. He’d never really been hurt bad up until that point - now it seems almost pathetic in comparison. And he missed this. Another failure to add to the list.

Dernier shrugs again, “he sorted it for ‘moi, and now everyone is mostly fluent or on e’ way - and now I know slang - is easier. ‘Ou just have to try - and stop waiting for them to bend to ‘ou. This is their world - so it is ‘our job to learn, just as it was e’ squad’s job to learn when in Dijon. ‘Ou picked up French rather quickly, naturally - I’m sure ‘ou will pick it up. Just because ‘ou failed once or twice doesn’t mean ‘ou should just give up.”

After a moment Dernier tacks on: “E’ problem is communication as I see--not ‘our shooting.”

Bucky shakes his head sharply, scrunching his hands in his hair against his temples. “Except for the part that I’ve fucked up the communication so much that now they don’t fuckin’_ trust_ me _to _shoot. I’ve screwed this up so muchfuck. I’m supposed to be….I’m supposed to be helping and….I’ve failed. Not even three days in and I’ve failed - what the fuck was Steve thinking leaving me here like I was gonna’ do good. He should know better - I’m shit at everything now so why---”

“--Arrête, Arrête!” ****(Stop, stop!)**** Dernier cuts him off, grabbing his arm to calm him. Bucky yanks it away sharply and stands just as sharp; starts stress-running his hands through his hair as he paces. Several men, men who saw him sent off the line today turn their heads to watch him pace back and forth into view through the tent flaps, untrusting. He realizes vaguely that Dernier has switched to his native tongue. “Certaines personnes ici pour parler anglais - il ne serait donc pas bon de vous entendre mal les bouche. You are being too hard on yourself.”**** (********Some people here do speak English - so it would not be good to hear you bad-mouthing them. You are being too hard on yourself.)****

Bucky laughs harshly_, what does it matter, he’s gonna’ get sent away anyway._ “ Ils ne pensent pas que je peux tirer, D, c’est le problème. Et je ne peux pas les blâmer - j’ai raté sacré ment près de chaque coup. Je ne voulais pas me laisser revenir sur la ligne après ces conneries.” ****(********They don’t think I******_** can**_****** shoot, D, that’s the issue. And I can’t blame them - I missed damn near every shot. I wouldn’t let ******_**me**_****** back on the line after those shitshows.)****

“Alors montrez-leur que vous pouvez tirer, hors de la ligne.”**** (********So show them you can shoot, off the line.)****

Bucky pauses at that - that’s a…there’s a make-shift shooting range on the other side of camp. Retraining for troops who’ve been sent to rehabilitate and on their way back. Unofficially people use it to get back in the zone.

“And stop pouting too.”

Bucky listens to Dernier immediately. He stops pouting, stops complaining - and goes to the shooting range. He proves he can shoot - and makes sure as many people see it as he can.

The next day he tries. He stops Bylov by the arm - and with his hand motions tries to get some sense out of where he should be. Bylov scoffs and walks off, muttering to himself. Bucky signs tiredly, and follows him. He’s kept away from any sniping battles worth fighting; and is just dumped in the infantry line instead - which is worse; now he’s surrounded by twenty Russians instead of five. Dernier, whose helping pack explosives onto a truck sees him in the line - give him vaguely alarmed eyes.

He calls - “Ce n’était pas ce qui était convenu. Ce n’est pas du train…”**** (This was not what was agreed. It's not train…)****

Bucky shrugs at him helplessly. _He trying, okay?_ And the order to stand here is all he can distinguish right now - Bykov has fucked off and made it very clear he’s not welcome. He finds a vaguely friendly lower Private who, while he has no knowledge of English, at least as some German in him - picked up from the enemy - and so they work second-hand through that once it becomes clear Bucky has no idea what orders are being shouted at him. He saves that man with a direct shot to the enemy’s heart when he’s nearly down for the count, and then unsheathes the knives in his boots when two more German’s decide for close contact and go for the guy when he’s on the floor. When Bucky holds out a hand the man turns Bucky sideways - shoots someone else - and introduces himself as Dmitri.

Bucky, over the explosive din on the fire-front - hears a_Karabiner_ chamber; fire - and shoves Dmitri and himself into cover. The bullet splinters a dent into the stone wall where Dmitri’s head was. In less that twenty seconds he has a vague area, and by thirty he’s forced the German sniper into another position to avoid the spray he’s lighted into him. He doesn’t get him - but someone else does; behind him, forty-five degrees right; Soviet shelling.

He head turns to look - and - nothing. He can’t see at all where this new sniper on their side is - even as he continues to fire - even as Bucky hones his ears on that exact sound - he still can’t see a single clue. _Now_**_** that’s **_**_a concealment, Jesus Christ._

Dmitri gets his attention again by calling him ‘fool American’ in German, and smiles. He spends the rest of the day translating everything he can for Bucky whenever they’re not firing and trying to kill everyone who tries to kill them.

He gets excused from the line when it’s dark at 04:00; and Dmitri offers for him to sit for the missed meal - and after a moment he does; forcing the fish down in a circle of men as they speak around him. Dmitri explains a few bits for him; ignoring his friends arguing with him for speaking German to Bucky; but mostly Bucky just sits among the lowly Privates and listens to the ca-cadence of the language. He’s learnt two words today. That counts, right?

After the meal he doesn’t bed down like the rest - over the last few months he built up quite a tolerance, and knows he can go longer before it hits him good and proper - so goes back to the range. By 05:30 he’s exhausted the targets there; too close, _too easy_ \- so has moved to the edge of camp, ‘borrowed’ a gun-dog without asking by bribing it with his secret jerky - _and his love _\- and is shooting down into the valley. He fires high up in the trees - scares a whole flock of birds into flight - and shoots them down. The ever-so-lovely pointer, Dasha; her collar says, takes off to retrieve them without him even having to give her verbal instruction. Which is great - since he has no idea what “Fetch” is supposed to sound like._ God, he loves dogs_. She comes back with three of the four in her mouth, muzzle sludgy with blood, and noses at his face when she drops them at his side. He gives her a good old love, and then she’s licking him and taking off for more. He follows her majestic path down the valley in his scope, unable to take his eyes away until he sees her stop; waiting at the base of a new tree - eyes up and silent. Smart girl. He does the same again, she barks to help - and gets five pheasants.

He feels eyes on him, watching his shots, but not as many as there was before. He’s still pretty useless - but at least he didn’t get anyone else killed today.

“Have ‘ou slept?” Dernier asks him sagely at 07:00, sitting crossed-legged beside him as he shoots. Gunfire is ongoing several miles away.

“You said prove them wrong.” Bucky counters, and Dernier nods; thumbs at a splash of blood on the side of his pants. “Not mine.” He relates, and then; when Dernier pokes at another spot with fabric fibers sticking out of the tear says: “Just a skim, I’m good. How you doing? Being here?”

“Being very bored.” Dernier answers the check-in.

“We’ll have to get you something to blow up.” Bucky declares easily - “I’ll talk to Karpov - or get my new buddy Dmitri to talk to his Lieutenant - or whatever comrade level sorts that out. Any preference?”

He considers every importantly for a moment. “I want a tank.”

“Heard loud and clear, big man.” He replies, firing out another shot at a deer. He gets it - cleanly through the skull - and Dernier helps him drag it back to camp - where he gives it and fourteen other birds he shot to the kitchens. Again, he understands nothing - but they look pleased.

Bykov snaps and shoves him off again - and won’t let him near his command - so he goes back to the infantry to find Dmitri. At least he can actually do something there.

By the end of the day Dmitri is dead.

. . .

Left alone and feeling very lonely while Dernier sleeps, Bucky writes a first draft of a letter for Steve; wanting to speak to someone else who fucking understands him when he tries to talk - he gets a whole ranting page down - swallows - and then suddenly the entire page is covered in black graphite just like the pages in his notebook.

He blinks, back and unable to remember doing it. He does remember what he wrote though…but doesn’t transfer it over to his last V-mail sheet. He doesn’t send it. It hasn’t even been half a week. _Don’t be clingy, you pathetic bastard._

He was right though, everything _is_ wrong when he’s alone.

. . .

He goes back to the valley to shoot - and steals Dasha again. He doesn’t even have to give her jerky this time to convince her, but he still does, because she’s_ a very good girl_. She drapes herself over the back of Bucky’s legs on her break, weighing him down as she gnaws the marrow from a bone she brought back as a gift to herself on their last run. This kind of weight on him is good.

“Sergei her trainer is having Истерику (hysterics) looking for her.”

“I don’t know whatever the hell that means, but Sergei can suck it, she’s busy.” He returns straight off, then blinks and rolls sharply as he realizes it was a English sentence in a Russian accent that just spoke. Dasha grumbles as she’s disturbed.

There’s a man stood there, wearing a hat; whose very tall. He like all the Soviets wears brown and green padded jackets and trousers with red and black strips sown into the shoulders, and is carrying several seals on it that Bucky doesn’t recognize. He’s in his mid-thirties, Bucky would say. He carries a_ Mosin Nagant. _The man’s mouth flickers upwards on one side.

“You speak English.” Bucky almost accuses.

The man doesn’t answer, just strolls to his side and strokes Dasha’s nape so she goes back to the bone. “I saw you shooting on the field the other day - you saved a comrade.”

“That comrade is dead now.” Bucky informs him.

“Happens.” The man says, “I saw you draw out the enemy from hiding, and saw you shoot here. You’re a sniper.”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers warily, “not from here”

“That is obvious.” The man scoffs, and gives him a long once-over, looking like he’s smelt something foul at the look of Bucky’s blue jacket and the sound of his accent.

“Wait,” he says after a moment - “you saw me draw him out - you’re the one who got him good.” He rolls onto his side in realization, abandoning his Springfield. “Where the hell was your perch, man? Seriously, I couldn’t fucking see you at all.”

“If you couldn’t see me then you must not be a very good sniper.”

Bucky tells him to fuck off. The man just laughs.

“I saw you in your….untagged uniform, and I thought - who is this foreigner to be here with us - mixed in with the lower ranks. Then I saw you here yesterday. So I asked…American. Here for a month with the Scientific Reserve.”

Bucky regards him carefully. “That’s a lot of details to know.” Because he’s pretty sure Bykov doesn’t even know _what _the Scientific Reserve is, let alone that Bucky comes from it.

“You know what you know when you know who to ask.” The man answers, as unhelpful as it is mysterious, “You are here on assignment for specialized training - why are you with the privates? Who are you under?”

“Karpov.”

“_Comrade_ Karpov.” The man corrects him sternly, “and who did our comrade put you with?”

_Your comrade, not ours_. “B..Bykov.” Bucky answers after a moment, trying to pronounce it correctly.

“Yurek” The man sounds out, and scratches at his eyebrow. “Bykov was on the Eastern side - up high with Yuri. So why were you down in the pit? The only training I saw was you training that comrade not to get himself shot. Which he clearly didn’t learn seeing as he’s already dead.”

_Geez__, nice man._ Bucky thinks sarcastically. _Way to honour the dead._

“I’d imagine he got fed up with me not being able to follow his orders seeing as I couldn’t pick up all of the Russian language an hour after meeting him.” Bucky notes sagely, “I know when I’m not wanted, even if I don’t know what…ебать…. и ест… мои яйца means.” He tries to repeat, knowing he’s done it badly.

“That would be ‘fuck off and eat my balls’.”

“Ah.” Bucky notes, snarky. “That has changed my life, thank you.” He turns back to his gun. “If you’re not going to tell me where your perch was then I don’t really see this going anywhere else. I have birds to shoot. I’m hungry.”

“You should not give all your birds to the kitchens then.” The man says; standing. He clearly watched Bucky yesterday much longer than he thought to know that.

“All’s fair in love and war.”

The man hums, and begins to walk off. The tread of his feet in the grassy mud stops, Bucky hears. “You are anokay shot, pinostan.”

. . .

‘Comrade’ Karpov calls him into his quarters, sat at a desk and scribbling on paper. The lamp light glances of his chrome-dome. Bucky makes himself blink - focus._ What hour are we on now - oh yes, __forty__ three gloriously shit awake hours._ Dernier threw a pillow at him twenty minutes, so he laid down - and then Karpov’s aide came in - clicked at him - so then he had to get back up.

“I haven’t seen you in a couple of days, Sergeant. How are you settling in?”

_What a stupid question?_ _No doubt you know how I’ve been ‘settling’ in. The orders to pull me off Bykov’s line came from you_. “Fine, sir.” He answers instead.

The man smirks down at his pen, and deigns to give Bucky his gaze. “Really?” He asks doubtfully.

“Yes…sir.”

“From my witness you’ve been failing quite admirably at following orders.” Bucky opens his mouth, Karpov holds up a hand, “though it has come to my attention that the trouble with following orders and actually being a functional _krasnoarmiich_may have been affected by the ability to understand the orders given to you.”

“It...it’s been difficult, sir.” He answers honestly after Karpov makes it clear he’s paused for answer. “I’m aware I’ve performed…Inadequately the last few days.”_ It was probably best I was sent off the regulated squad unit and into the moshpit of the lower ranks. Less to listen to and less to obey - more likely of getting killed yes, but more likely not to get others killed too. Less likely to screw up._

“Affecting your shots too. I was beginning to believe ‘Captain America’ had gained for himself a terrible shot as his marksman.” Bucky nearly grinds his teeth. “I have been told otherwise - it would seem. You have been shooting birds. In flight. From five hundred yards.”

“Practice.”

“Practice.” Karpov repeats.

“Getting my groove back, if you will.”

“I see. Perhaps it is good you ‘ got your groove back’. I was prepared to note you down for penal battalions if you continued on the path you were on.”

Bucky knows what penal battalions mean in Soviet territory - discipline and punishment severe enough that those caught in it were given nearly suicidal tasks. He has to very narrowly stop himself from snarking, _Steve won’t like that at all,_ before he sounds like a bewildered fool.

“I’m glad I could convince you otherwise, Colonel Karpov.”

“Be glad to Kuryakin for that.”

Bucky frowns, “I’m sorry. Who?”

“You’re back with the Sniper Elites tomorrow. 06:00 on the East Line. Line up by truck thirty three.” Karpov says instead, “you are dismissed.”

. . .

Bucky has to look up in his dictionary what thirty three looks like in Cyrillic so he stands by the correct one.

. . .

At 05:96 he’s by the truck, bouncing on his feet - wondering how terrible today is going to get. He’s not ready to deal with Bykov’s smug sneering face all day; and he’s certainly not ready to try and remember what word is left, what word is right and what words all the other damn words are supposed to mean.

“Pinostan.” A familiar voice calls behind him, and it’s the tall man. “You don’t have your dog today.”

“She has a hot date with a hound.” Bucky replies after a moment, turning. “Doesn’t have time for ugly mutts like me in her time off.”

The man hums, with a flat face, but Bucky can tell he’s amused. “You are with me, today. Come. Follow. Don’t get me shot.”

He strides away, and Bucky - now self-trained to keep pace with Steve’s new ginormous stride does a little run to catch up, and then follows pace as several more snipers stream into the area and begin climbing in the trucks. “And, who are you, exactly?”

“Illya. Kuryakin.”

_Be glad to__Kuryakin__ for that_. Oh. This guy stood up for him_. _

“If you are to be specially trained in the Eastern way and improve international relations” Illya Kuryakin says, “you should probably start by being specially trained and relating to people who are less likely to be cannon fodder, pinostan. This is thirty three.” He slaps the painted number on the side of the truck several meters away from the one Bucky was stood at. “You were stood at seventy three.”

_Fuck. _“Give me a break, Red Peril, it’s a new fucking alphabet for me, you know.” Already he seems to have sussed that if Illya Kuryakin is happy insulting Bucky’s jacket, then he’s alright with Bucky insulting him too. There’s that mouth quirk again.

“Get in, pinostan.” He says, gesturing for him to slide into the third seat in the front next to him and the driver. A woman sniper and two others climb into the back. While they’re all marked with Sniper Elite pins, Illya has more stitched badges on his shoulder than the rest. He’s has more than Bykov. He’s in charge.

_Well, fucking okay then._

“You gonna tell me what pinostan means?” He asks as he slams the door shut and settles in. The truck surges forward.

“You’ll learn.”

“When?”

“When I decide you’ll learn.”

. . .

The Russians are a sort of irreverently insane that he’s never encountered before - but Bucky finds that now he’s with the _in-crowd_ \- it’s a kind of insane he can really _really_ get behind. As far as they’re concerned if you can’t shoot with half a bottle of vodka in you and your ass gone blue from spending fourteen hours in a goddamn tree; then you just couldn’t plain shoot.

Bucky respects that; and respects it even more a quarter bottle of vodka in.

The new Sniper Elites laugh and clap him on the back often, saying they haven’t seen many Americans that can hold their liquor or withstand the deep-in-the-bones cold that comes with the Eastern Front as well as they do. Bucky never thought he’d be thankful for the gift of ice in his blood that Zola gifted him, but the fact that the cold doesn’t bother him like how sight of blood doesn’t make him queasy anymore is a bit of an advantage. If anything, since Steve’s secret stash, he’s now started running hotter in the last month.

The Soviets and the Eastern Front have a lot more snipers that the West do, and a lot of women snipers too which is a surprise. In the 107th he was still technically referred to as a rifleman of their company, as the Western Allies’ game plan was _offense offense offense_ with heavy tanks and missiles - whereas the Soviet’s have been on the defensive from the beginning. He meets a crazy Finn by the name of Simo Hayha who has over five hundred confirmed kills in his arsenal and a reputation that means even the Russians stay the hell away from him.

The majority of his spotters and ‘teachers’ have at least ninety kills under their belts, most of them more; with enemy sniper kills in the multiples too. To be able identify enemy snipers positions, after Poland, is something Bucky is _very_ interested in. He doesn’t ever want to get caught in that situation again if he can help it.

Illya constantly wears a grey _Uskauka_ on his head, to the point Bucky has no idea he’s sandy-haired until nearly a full week in, and that’s after spending a hundred and forty hours of that week together.

When they go out sniping Bucky leaves his jacket with Dernier; and trades it in for the same padded green jacket and a amoeba camo-suit complete with full hood and face cover to help conceal him entirely. Yuri and Sergei still tend to wear their helmets - but if he’s crawling across the ground in close quarters it’s easier to move and blend in with the hood.

Illya is an expert in close quarter urban areas - which is essential in the long drawn out battles in Soviet cities like Leinguard. Bucky learns a lot; he learns exactly how much he potentially missed when he set up his perch in Italy; how he limited his range of motion and how because of that the curvature was off. He learns how to hit moving targets from much further away. He learns how to conceal himself with incredible tricks up his sleeve - and now, if he were back at that Polish base he reckons that other sniper never would have got a spot on him.

Steve tends to forget that Bucky’s job involves a lot fewer heroic entrances and a lot more watching heads explode through a scope than his own, but Bucky’s not in any hurry to correct the lapses. He wants Steve’s naivety gone, but he also wants him to keep some semblance of idealism he has left. He realizes, as someone else dies in front of his scope that maybe it is a good idea to put some space between them before Steve comes to the same conclusion.

_Maybe,_ he thinks now a couple of days in_, a bit of space might be okay for a while._

Inexplicably his back has straightened without his awareness and the _edge_ he’s been carrying around for months has scarpered into the cold air. He’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s not waiting for the reminder of Krausberg and _him_ to strike, sending him hurtling back to the beginning._ What if something goes wrong - what if something goes _**_**right? **_**What if he doesn’t have to waste so much energy on the terrible anticipation of it that he can actually be helpful to the SSR? Helpful to the howlers, helpful to Steve?

He’s not completely alone with Dernier here, but otherwise he’s surrounded by strangers who more often than not don’t speak his language, and they certainly don’t know his history. They don’t watch him with the same gaze the commandos sometimes do, through no fault of their own - it’s just the way people tend to look at him when they _know but don’t know_.

Illya doesn’t know a single goddamn thing about what happened to him, and so he cuts him no slack whatsoever. He insults him and gives him shit, teaches him the worst swears he knows in Russian all while broadening his sniper-ing horizons. It’s almost_ freeing._ Bucky fucking loves it.

They start teaching each other Russian and American slang and insults in between shots. Sometimes next to each other as they fire out synchronized bullets, sometimes while Illya spots, sometimes while Bucky spots, sometimes over the radio from different positions when neither of them give a shit. Illya should probably get in trouble for that part, but he’s known enough, and scary enough, that people tend to just let him do what he wants.

“What else you got?” Bucky murmurs, while in _Velizh_ in Belarus

(or _‘no. ‘The Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic’_ as Illya continues to correct him constantly with.

_‘It’s not the Byelorussian blah blah right now is it,’_ Bucky keeps arguing back_ ‘the German’s have it - and only after you lot took it for yourselves anyway.’_ Illya tells him to shut up, buckle down, and concentrate.)

where they’ve been dropped beyond the line, moving unseen and bedded down on the fourth floor of an apartment block.

Illya cants his head. “Ты влагалище с глазами на ваш мудак - it means 'You are a vagina with eyes on your asshole.”

“Oh _yes_, okay. Gold star. I am _sold_.” Bucky decides, “’m so using that one. How do you say it again; Ты влагалище с глазами на”

“ваш мудак.” Illya finishes for him.

“ваш мудак” Bucky repeats, then says it again. Illya corrects him, so he goes again; another two times - then the man pulls a face at his accent but allows that the pronunciation is sort-of-correct. Bucky tells him: “You’re a Death’s Head Upon a Mop-Stick.”

Now boy does that get Illya blinking.“_What_is that?”

“Tis’ what you are.” Bucky tells him. “A poor, miserable, emaciated fellow. You look as pleasant as the pains of death.”

“I do notI am not emaciated.”

“You are.” Bucky says, who knows the guy won’t take actual insult from the insult. “It’s what I used to call my friend sometimes when he was skinny and he kept refusing the food I tried to give him off my plate.” He says, unsure why he’s giving this back-story. “Emotional blackmail at it’s finest.”

Illya is big-boned, and tall - and clearly used to have muscle on him; though he’s lost much of the definition. He’s in his mid thirties - and he served before the war as a sniper - but not with the Army. It hasn’t been said; but Bucky’s worked out enough to figure _that_ out. He figures if the British won’t admit that their intelligence service exists; “which it doesn’t”_but it __so __does _ then the Soviets certainly won’t open their lips about their own. He spent the whole of the last winter in East Prussia; behind the line and starving on assignment before he got out. Bucky doesn’t know the details, just as Illya doesn’t know the details about him.

“Do you ever eat?” Bucky asks, as he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen Illya do anything other drink, bar one time when they shared two large _Meie kaitsja_ blocks of chocolate. He likes to pretend he’s a mysterious bastard, his companion does.

Illya ignores him and takes that question as a complaint. “If you are hungry.” Illya declares, handing him a flask. “Then drink.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, even though he is hungry. Really hungry - and desperate for a piss. He won’t give Illya the satisfaction of leaving his perch to re-leave himself though - as that’ll get him classed as a ‘weak-lived pisspot’, which Bucky is still learning the pronunciation of.

Illya constitutes. “If you are thirsty - then drink. If you are bored”

“Let me guess,” Bucky interrupts, “Then drink.”

“Da.“ Illya pushes the flask at him, so he takes it. “So drink. Or your shots don’t count.”

Bucky huffs, rolling his eyes. He drinks and grimaces at the burn, then goes back to his scope.

“Russian insults are better than _pindostan insults.” _Illya decides.

“If I listen to you - anything and everything Russian or close is better than American.”

“Yes. Exactly. We win.”

. . .

He got a letter from Steve in the first week, right as things began to turn round in Belarus, though the stamp shows he didn’t even let a couple of days pass in London before he put pen to paper. It makes Bucky feel not nearly as bad about nearly being the clingy bastard first. He asks him _how it’s going? How’s Russia? What’re you learning?_

Bucky tells him it’s great while not wanting to let on that it’s great unless Steve takes it the wrong way, which lets face it, he probably will, and he teases him about being gone a week and how Steve’s already missing him.

_I don’t miss you insulting me that’s for sure_. Steve writes back, on the second week._ I’m just checking in, wanted to make sure you were doing okay without your precious balavas next to you everyday giving you the luck of Saint._

“You are such a piece of shit, Steve Rodgers.” Bucky mutters as he reads, grinning and pink with embarrassment.

. . .

Steve also forwarded all the letters collecting dust in their P/O box - his ma’s letter, and then his other ma’s letter, and then one from Becca it looks like too. And that other one of Steve’s. He’s very popular.

_. . ._

DATE RECIEVED: N/A - FERRIED WITH SSR MAIL.

* * *

** **ВОЕННО-МОРСКОЙ ФЛОТ ОТДЕЛ СВЯЗИ КРАСНОЙ АРМИИ** **

* * *

(ЦЕНЗОР ШТАМП - ОЧИЩЕНО) 

K: WINIFRED BARNES, OT: SGT JAMES BARNES 

4429 ELIZABETH STREET, BELL GREEN. N.Y АДРЕС: ****LOCATION REDACTED****

Дата: APRIL 04,1944

* * *

_Dear Ma and the twins,_

_I got a bunch of mail today - Steve forwarded them on as promised. It was great to hear from all of you and also the good news about Dougie getting 6 months (_ _deferment_ _)…boy, I almost broke down myself hearing all the good news. Thank you for the birthday wishes. I love the watch - and the hand-cream and the cookies - and I love the _ _toilet_ _ paper the most. But geez ma, what are you going for a record or something? Ha._

_You’re probably mighty confused by the envelope, and the notes and all that shit. It’s Russian - so you don’t have to bother going to a _ _library_ _ to look it up. I’m with the Russians but not in Russia exactly - I know, I was just in Cisterna and now I’m here. Steve doesn’t like to fucking stop and breathe fresh air while we’ve got it sometimes when there’s things to be done. He gets restless. The Jerries have still got Cisterna, but we were pretty darn close to nabbing it before we left. Other non-army priorities. _

_I can’t do much while I’m here but I mentioned to Steve about _ _cancelling the apartment before he got on the plane - and about sending the money on. I’m not sure what he can do from that end ‘cause it’s my accounts and he’s not me - but he’s going to try with my permission. If it doesn’t work he said he’ll send his latest instead to you. I told him no but you know how he is, a crackers tool - but he’s a kind tool at least._

_Sent my other letter before I got your last one - so I know about the storm. I’m calling the weathertime gift, straight as a shot, right now._

_I hope you’ve had a good Easter by the time this gets to you. Did you get my other letter? About the dream thing?_

_I love you. Give the girls my l_ove,

_Bucky_

* * *

. . .

He stops dreaming about his past horrors - there’s still needles and scalpels and the blinding surgical lights - but they’re not re-enactments of his memories anymore. His mix-up meld of memories as he likes to call them is working, he thinks at first. It’s confusing his mind so that it can’t always bring them to the forefront. They stop being as scary the more times you live through them - so then, to get back at him, the parasite inside him, out of his own control; makes up it’s own.

They like to surprise him - trick him, and he only realizes it when the dreams nearly all start doing it. They start off a certain way - at his house like with the iron, at his nana’s dinner table, on Steve’s old fire-escape, halfway up the _Cyclone_ or as he’s wading with seawater around his ankles at Rockaway Beach. It’s very effective.

Sometimes he’s alone; sometimes there’s other characters there; his friends, his family and unknown outsiders that wander around like extras in a movie. Dugan goes to the beach with him, and Howard Stark supports the punching bag as he lays himself into it until he’s sore, waxing wise about women and motor generators. There’s others too, like he said; people who move with a slow blur around him; their faces smooth and featureless like the side of an eggshell but with hair. Johnny Shelby who worked at the docks with him sits at his side eating his nana’s blackberry pie - and then nana’s false teeth fall out onto the table and someone spills the custard. When he looks up with his five year old height the lamplight glints of Zola’s glasses and Johnny is down on the table. He watches as Zola pries and pulls out Johnny’s teeth one by one with a pair of pliers. He tries to leave but he’s tied to the dinning chair and then Zola pulls out his fingernails from their roots.

It’s not his worst dream.

_With water round his ankles he wades deeper into the sea with Dugan - the sun’s shinning and the water rippling but calm. It glints nicely on the waves in the distance and by their feet, and tiny little fish swim around their ankles. They go deeper together, water sloshing around their knees. Dugan’s controlling the conversation; talking about this and that, lots of things, and anytime they veer into a subject Bucky doesn’t like he gives the hum that means stop instead of continue, and Dugan does. He finds another nice, safe subject and they talk about that instead; about _ _holidays_ _ they went on as kids. Where Bucky went to Indiana, Dugan would go to Montana; and not to hunt, but to to ride. _

_“It’s _ _beautiful_ _ there, man. You should go, mountains everywhere, green as far as the eye can see. Hundreds of lakes. We’ll all seven of us go, I can take you horse riding, get you a proper hat.”_

_Bucky laughs, “The kind Judson would wear?” _

_“The exact kind Judson would wear. I went herding cattle the last time, it was great fun. Come on, you gotta admit, it’ll be a right sight watching Cap fall off a horse. Don’t you wanna see that?”_

_More than anything. “Knowing him he’d been an expert the second he touches the saddle.”_

_“We can have hope.” Dum Dum says, nudging him with an elbow._

_Bucky hums, “can my sisters come? Lily loves horses; ever since she could walk, no matter how big they were and how small she was. I used to have to chase her every freezing ass morning in my skivvies whenever she did a runner after the milk cart.”_

_“Of course they can.” Dugan says, “we’ll spoil em rotten.”_

_Bucky hums again._

_“We can just relax, chill out in the sun, catch a tan. Cause we’d go in summer of course.” Dugan continues. _

_“I hope your tan stops in the middle of your forehead cause you forgot to take that stupid hat off.” Bucky says. Dugan blurts out a belly laugh, and when Bucky looks at him takes his hat off to dip it. He has an _ _atrociously_ _sun-burnt_ _ face, and a white expanse of skin from above his eyebrows up to his hairline. He looks _ _ridiculous_ _, and it’s just what Bucky wants to see._

_“I’ll bring my mother.” Dugan continues, as kids laugh behind them on the beach, playing in the sand. Bucky doesn’t turn back to see if they have egg shell faces or not. “if only to cook for us when we get too lazy. And Frenchie’s wife of course, and his daughter. We gotta meet little Amelie. Jones would have his sweetheart - Morita _ _whatever_ _ bird catches his fancy that week. Monty…who the hell knows with him? We can rent out a whole ranch. Would you bring anyone else, ‘cept your sisters?”_

_“I can bring more than just them?” Bucky asks, _ _surprised_ _._

_“We gotta lot of rooms to fill in that ranch, so hell yeah. As many as you want, whoever you want. Not all family is blood, as we all well know by now.” He slings and arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and they stop for a moment, the water still at their knees even though they’ve been walking towards the horizon for a while._

_“Bertie should come.” He decides, “for Steve.”_

_“Bertie?”_

_“Our friend. He’s rich, so he can pay for half the ranch - he’d probably like the sun after being stuck inside a submarine for ages. He’s very eccentric,” Bucky explains, “you’d get on.”_

_“Alrighty, good to know.”_

_Bucky continues, “and the rest of the gang should come too. His sister Courtney, and Isabelle.”_

_“Ooh, two dames. Are they smokin’?”_

_“Beyond smokin’.” Bucky says with a grin. “Smokin’ enough that you can taste _ _barbecue_ _ when you set eyes on ‘em smokin’.”_

_“They can have the room next to mine then.”_

_Bucky laughs, “you might wanna introduce yourself first. And why would they wanna go with you when they already know me. And Steve. It’ll be interesting to see him actually talk to them sober for once now he’s got some confidence in him.” He’s so happy Steve’s confident now._

_“Reckon we should invite Carter?”_

_They probably should. “Yeah, okay. Then Steve might fall off a horse if we get her to distract him. She’d probably do it too if you make the right kinda’ deal with her.” _

_“Then she’s coming just for that.” Dugan says as they start walking again. Bucky closes his eyes and tips his head back, the sunlight warming his face. “Plus, with her there then there’s more chance we can get your Courtney and Isabelle for ourselves.”_

_“I’ll set them up with Monty before I set them up with you.”_

_“You’re such a fuckin’ traitor.” Dugan says, and Bucky grins, eyes still closed and head tipped back. His feet squish the sand in-between his toes, wet and silky, and he scrunches his feet; in out, in out. He sucks mother nature into himself - letting the peace of the world, of the earth and the sky settle in the way ma used to talk about. When he opens his eyes in the distance is a small family wading in the water like them; a bearded men with a ball that floats, a woman, and a browned haired toddler sitting on her shoulders. The man laughs and bops the little boy on his nose, and the woman starts spinning in the water like a _ _carousel_ _. She laughs, and lets herself fall into the water, swinging back up right as they water catches on the toddlers head, teasing him. The little boy giggles the same why Bucky used to, and as she comes up a third time the woman’s facing the pair of them. Their eyes catch as they walk and Bucky’s ma smiles at him across the water._

_ And he makes a wrong step. The wet sand pulls him down; his leg disappearing beneath him; sinking to the bottomless bottom as he falls. Suddenly the water isn’t four foot deep but _ _forty_ _ and he’s underwater - trying to frantically swim up to the surface as the rest of his hips disappear into the sinking sand. Dugan’s face blurs and ripples from the other side of the water, shouting for him, but his ears are waterlogged and each grain of sand is crushing him in a suction._

_He breaches the other side and he’s in an upside down world, stood on a sandy _ _ceiling__._

_And yes, hello, here’s Zola._

. . .

They say the fear sinners feel this side of the grave will be nothing compared to the fear they feel when they stand before Almighty God. Bucky doubts that, he doubts he could be more scared up there than he is down here on earth sometimes. He’s so scared he’s not even angry a lot of the time, and when he is - it’s too much. Sometimes it builds; and other times….other times it just flares up and out like a dawning sunbeam on the horizon, blinding him from sense.

It’s new. He’s never been one switch over from exploding; trigger already primed and ready to spring.

He’s always likened himself to be a fairly even-tempered person; even when the growth pains were the worst he remained fairly steady. Becca certainly lost her temper far more at that age; and earlier more like. Jenna too has had her fair share of temper tantrums - but Bucky - Bucky and Lily - while they certainly weren’t quiet - were the the balanced pair; rational and chilled even under pressure. They get it from pa; who through his many years with their many pressing times lost his temper so little Bucky can barely count it on one hand. Conflict in that sense used to bother him in a way that body blows, corkscrews and cauliflower ears didn’t. All he ever used to want was for everyone to get along.

No doubt there has been moments when things boiled over; after building and building and building - where an uncaring snarked remark didn’t quite pass the buck anymore. And when he blows he knows _he blows_; and that’s where his ma’s part of him kicks in; but otherwise; he’s a pa’s boy. It’s very rarely managed to get that far before. Anytime that it built up; his pop’ would see it; clap him on the back and steer them out the door; until mid-rant Bucky would realize they were outside Goldie’s - and then he’d be saddling up his shorts and taping his knuckles; and pa would be ready with the pads.

_“Alright.” He used to assert, slapping the leather together in a clap - “lay it on me, slugger.”_

_His pa was always so much taller, bigger; lofty in a way Bucky knew he’d never live up to that he’d freakin’ just go for it with no apprehension of dialing down his hits - and his pa would let him until he got it all out; then clip him round the head when he forgot to keep his guard up; and then let him catch his breath in an over the shoulder hug when Bucky needed._

_“Better?”_

_Panting over his shoulder, Bucky nods into the sweaty skin. “Y-yeah. Thanks.”_

_“ You’re not foolin’ me with the Callahans acting up around Steve line, just so you know. I see through you like a knife through warm butter, lad. You wanna tell me what it was really about?”_

_Bucky grimaces as his father keeps him upright, swaying with the motion. “You wouldn’t like the answer.”_

_His pop’s muscles tense under him for a moment. What’s that supposed to mean, he hears in his faux easy voice, even as George Barnes says: “Try me.”_

_Bucky shakes his head, “Not yet. Maybe later.”_

_They pull back from each other, breath suitably caught, as his pa ducks down to his level to try and catch his eyes to boot. “Yeah? Later - that a promise?”_

_“Half of one.” Bucky eventually answers with, already thinking how he’s going to phrase it not to hurt his pa’s feelings. From the look on his face he reckons pa might already have part of the answer._

_“Well can I get half a promise you’ll keep your guard up for half your damn match on Saturday, and nail that Roofer’s kid good and proper when you do?”_

_“Pfft.” Bucky scoffs, “I always keep my guard”_

_His pa smacks him abruptly in the head with the pad, and Bucky staggers slightly despite it not even being hard. “What was that? You wanna try that again, King of Defence?”_

_He splutters, “Thatthat doesn’t count I”_

_He ducks as his pa tries for another trick shot, and he’s halfway through a victorious “ha!;” smile returned to his face right as his pop jabs in him the belly as a distraction and gets him another time on the temple from the other side. He goes to the ground like he’s been felled by a tree, moaning and pathetic._

_“You -” his pa declares, stood over him with his own brand of a smile, “are more dramatic than all your sisters combined.”_

_Bucky breaks off his moaning with a chortle, rolls onto his back and grins brilliantly upside down at the best pop a guy can ask for._

He doesn’t exactly have boxing to get his energy out anymore - and this kind of anger and unpardonable rage that grows within him is in-conducive to sniping. He has to stop himself a lot and say:

_This is vengeance. This is wrong. Stop. Don’t kill that prisoner, no matter that they’re Hydra, no matter how much you want to. It’s wrong_.

“He is the enemy. He would kill us.” Nina Pavlovna Petrova, nicknamed “Mama Nina”, at fifty-one years old with ninety six kills, eleven of them enemy snipers; declares when he says exactly that.

“He’s a prisoner.” Bucky replies, holding himself back as an itch runs up his skin. “My Captain is very by the book. Best not in-case it gets back to him.” Is the answer he gives in the end.

Illya at least slaps him on the shoulder in his gruff tall way and says: “Согласен” 

It means ‘fair enough’ in Russian. He’s learning Russian now - learning more than just shooting without a scope and accuracy from these men - and as he goes he teaches them English.

(Illya later, when they’re alone, says: “Если ты не хочешь стрелять в них. Не надо. Только не оправдывайся. I do not accept excuses.” ( “****If you don't want to shoot them. Do not. Just don't make excuses. I do not accept excuses.****”)

He finds he gets on with a lot of them; even if they’re very different to the men he knew back in America - they’re colder, yet still humble, and upfront. They don’t try to hide things or disguise the truth for what it is. If something happens, if someone has something to say - they just say it, straight to your face and damn the consequences - they don’t hide behind pretty words and pretend reasons for things. If they don’t’ want to tell you something, they just won’t; they’ll go silent and leave and not bother with lies.

If you don’t want to say something - same goes. It’s refreshing.

Like Illya said - No excuses. The men and women he works with anyway - the higher ups in Soviet command and in the Communist Party are hardly be the same; interwoven with secrets; but it’s the same as most of the people he’s met in the SSR, Army and out; so it’s hardly jolting.

Karprov - the chrome dome - is one such man.

. . .

There’s whispers about camp, not among the men but among the command; who corral, one by one in stuffy army huts, speaking lowly; armed guards at the closed doors of each. A man whose pins designate him as General Ivan Chernyakhovsky’s chief is among them, so Bucky presumes they’re getting ready for the grand show.

Operatsiya Bagration. 

They say it’s going to be the biggest Allied Operation of the war - cornering in Field Marshall Bursh in the BeloRussian Bulge.

General Bagramyan, fielding 359,500 men, will push into Latvia to screen the right flank of the main assault and support forces farther south. On the First Front, farthest south in Ukraine — 1,071,100 men commanded by General Konstantin Rokossovsky — will assault Busch’s Ninth Army, skirting the Pripyat Marshes and pushing due west toward Bobruisk on the Berezina River. Then on in the general direction of Minsk. To aid the attackers, partisan units coordinated by _Stavka_, the Red Army high command, will launch demolition attacks against Belorussian railways to prevent reinforcements from reaching the threatened zone.

And in the middle, on the Third Front - Bucky’s temporary company under General Ivan Chernyakhovsky, with 579,300 men, will hopefully capture heavily defended Vitebsk and the area north of Orsha, then push southwest toward Minsk too, and Vilnius, the Lithuanian capital, crushing or encircling Busch’s Third Panzer Army at Vitebsk. General Georgy Zakharov has South of Orsha.

It’s a doozy, but outside of his job here - going behind the line with Illya and Sergei and spying on numbers and the like - it doesn’t involve him the way D-Day undoubtedly will. This is Hitler’s war, and Bucky - Bucky’s fighting Hydra - so he pays little notion to it.

At least - he does - he does until--

“There’s been an attack.” Illya says to him abruptly, cresting a ditch and sliding down it after Bucky. They swivel, back to back and guns raised as they check their surroundings - and advance in the dark. Their parachutes are buried in two mounds several miles back - and they have five more to go until the German camp comes into view.

“There’s always an attack.” Bucky murmurs back - and catches the last glint of the moonlight on Sergei’s bayonet as he disappears into the darkness in the Southern distance. Before he spoke - Bucky did notice how his partner checked Sergei’s position to their right in that he was gone; and Ivanka’s too, on their left. Bucky’s eyes, he thinks, are better in that they can see their comrades further than Illya’s can. They are surely gone now, on their own missions.

“Not the Hitlerites, though they are still Fascist Beasts.” Illya says, voice spiteful. “Another division. Wearing a skull with six legs.”

Bucky nearly trips, but recovers and keeps his movements swift. “Legs - or tentacles?” He asks straight away, with no hesitation. “Like an octopus?”

He needs confirmation.

“Yes.” Illya just says.

“Where?”

“At the border. Near Slovechno.”

“Sla-vek--”

“Slovechno.” His partner corrects his mispronunciation - and Bucky repeats - but before he can ask more - Illya orders “глаза вверх”. Bucky translates - in his head - Eyes. Up. _Eyes up, focus._ Their mission. Count German numbers, artillary and then the fun begins.

On this operation - between them - Bucky has command. It’s sabotage time; which means this time - he’s the fucking expert.

. . .

He can’t help it. In the main assault he quite literally has no choice but to yell :“When you said _tank_ I didn’t know you meant to do_ that_!”

Dernier, rolling across the dirt to put out his literally _flaming_ arm, cackles and runs off into the bushes; leaving the tank and half the skin on his face burning in the middle of the road.

. . .

He writes Steve, _In just the last two days, our battalion has lost 60 men; more than 30 escaped, and in the middle of that is the injured; yet we've got them on the ropes. There is only enough ammunition to last the German's until evening; _because we flooded the rest so the gunpowder was useless, and rigged half the other crates _the soldiers have not eaten at all in three days,_because we also rolled their food down a hill_ and many of them have frostbitten feet_ because they had to jump into the river to retrieve said food before it all perished while Bucky and the rest disappeared back into the darkness feeling proud of themselves. _We're getting there._

Jacques returns to their party several days later from his own exclusive loan out, looking ashy and smelling of smoke. Bucky meanwhile, for once, is fairly well rested. He’s playing a card game he doesn’t know the rules of with the boys when Dernier enters.

“You. _You _are an fucking megalomaniac.” He tells him outright. “Are you sure you aren’t Steve Rodgers in disguise?”

Dernier laughs, and crosses his heart. “I er, how you say, solemnly swear.”

“Hm.” Bucky motions, “I only half believe you. I take it you found even more fire to play with?”

“Oui. I did.”

“And did you teach these Ivans the gold that a Frenchman can do?”

“That is e’ stupidest question you have ever asked me.”

Bucky slants a look at Illya and Sergei. He nods in acquiescent. “It is a pretty stupid question in fairness.”

. . .

It’s only after - when he looks at a map and translates each sound into the each separate letter in an unfamiliar alphabet to hunt down the obscure little location - which takes freaking ages and is mostly down to Jacques - seeing as Bucky is ever so slightly seeing double from being awake for so long - for things to click into place. He understands why Chernyakhovsky’s chief is here.

By border - Illya meant the Ukrainian border - right where the bulk of the Soviet’s firepower for Operation Bagration very well may be._ Shit. Motherfucker._

Jacques smacks him on the arm - gaining his attention, and points out the several railway lines printed into the map criss-crossing the whole damn area.

He learns who to ask.

Ivanka, who Bucky knows is from that area for the flag she has tattooed on her arm, is that one. She’s nowhere near cleared enough to question _why _Bucky is asking such a thing through meticulously written Cyrllic from his dictionary, but confirms it’s a railway town by drawing a train across the lined paper beneath his question about trade as he pretends to flirt.

. . .

Then this happens:

He’s on his way to see Dasha when he catches it out of the corner of his eye. A company of men - in suited uniforms among bayonet men wearing uskuka’s - alongside several crates and a large briefcase. It’s nothing that should flag - but --- somehow suddenly his back is on a caster dolly and he’s sliding himself underneath a truck; with a roll of tools next to his thigh.

At this angle below - he has a clear view of the door; up to the upper thighs as armed guards settle either side of the door as six men enter, while they have little to no view of him. They loosen the strings and the door wings flap closed. Bucky racks his brain as he tries to remembers whose tent this is.

It’s noone’s, he thinks, a communal command one for visiting officers, dignitaries, and politicians. No, that’s the one on the other-side of camp. This is a temporary munitions store. Why are a bunch of suited politicians having a meeting in the munitions store?

The slap of four butt plates hit the dirt in low thuds as the guards go from courtesy report to parade rest in front of the door and tent corners. Bucky feels his way for a spanner and clangs a few things under the car to keep his mechanic cover. Like he expected - they all look straight past him now he’s working manually and has covered his own insignia pins with a dirty rag over his shoulder.

He doesn’t recognize any faces, but he doesn’t need to, he can listen. He closes his eyes, breathes. As easy as knife through warm butter, as his pop would say, the sounds of his surroundings blur out, and he’s listening to voices behind cargo fabric.

He realizes once the greetings are finished he’s straining his ears when he doesn’t need to, so relaxes his spine and just lets the conversation wash into him - it’s all in Russian, so there’s not much to distinguish.

“Сможем ли мы добраться до Бизнес?”

“Обидно, что мы не можем сделать это в соответствующей обстановке. Я знал лучший ресторан в Минске, если немец его уже не испортил, мы должны вернуться, когда отвоюем его.”

“Мы страдаем там, где должны.”

“Наша информация гарантирована. Мужчины разговаривают с красивыми женщинами - и кто красивее балерины. У нас есть несколько в Минске, и больше в московской компании.”

“Механизм потока информации между ними на протяжении многих лет хорошо зарекомендовал себя. Это актив агентство стремится изучить дальше - моложе.”

“Теперь Gusev, давайте не будем так скоро говорить о будущем. Настоящее является нашим приоритетом.”

“Конечно, товарищ.”

Three voices - three men doing talking. Two parties. With the tip of his knife Bucky scrapes the name Gusev into the oil along the front axle above him. He shuffles upwards on the caster dolly so his head overhangs it, and tips it further back so his skull is cresting the concrete beneath to widen his viewpoint. He draws the symbols he can see on the guards’ pins and shoulder tags to try and identify who and where they belong to.

Of those who entered; one looked Air-force - and Bucky thinks another was wearing a Lance Corporal patch for the engineers. He doesn’t think he recognizes any of the others. The ones the guards bear are ordinary - aside from that some are in parade colours, and not field.

“Важно, чтобы собаки не уловить ветер цели.”

Будьте уверены Гусев. Калашник оценивает карьер и наблюдение продолжается, как мы говорим. Вы будете иметь доклад в ближайшее время. Цель Ворона не была забыта.

“Надеемся, что это пособие будет удовлетворительным для вашей работы.”

His sight on the pins skitters off and the sound comes back in with Пособие. He knows this word. Nina taught him this word, when she was telling him to stop ‘allowing’ Sergei to win at checkers; a universal game that works beyond language barriers. It’s not quite that word, but similar - _allow, give_<strike></strike>

A club of planes fly overhead in a loud roar, drowning out the voices - but the speed of them flying low sends in rush of air with it and the flaps of the munitions tent fly open. Bucky strains his head further back to see inside and---

The men on the left have opened one of the briefcases, midway through handing it over - and it’s filled with money. Red and green Soviet Rubles stacked in rows - and when Bucky squints, he can see the values - red five-hundreds and green a thousands.

_Fucking Christ_.

Allowance. The word’s allowance.

“Да, товарищ. Это должно сделать красиво.” (****Yes, comrade. This should do nicely****.) The man receiving says, which Bucky can translate, as he takes the corners of the case. The door flaps closed as the guard catches hold of it and pulls it towards the closed hooks.

“В пакет входит несколько паспортов, которые вы можете найти... полезно в сокращенный оперативный период.”

“Есть 22-часовое окно, как только вы находитесь на территории. Окно начинается в тот момент, когда ваши активы ноги упали на землю.”

They keep talking, and Bucky, Bucky is trying to do the math of how much _damn lettuce_ was stuffed into that single briefcase of three columns and seven rows; stacked on-top of each other. The conversation sounds like it’s coming to an end as he reaches his guestimate - or that it moves onto another topic.

“А другой вопрос обсуждался на нашей последней встрече?”

“Будьте уверены Gusev. Каlashnik оценивает карьер и наблюдение продолжается, как мы говорим. Вы будете иметь доклад в ближайшее время. Цель Ворона не была забыта.”

He adds the name Kalashnik next the already existent Gusev along the front axle. He makes the appearance of the receiving man stick in his brain, so he doesn’t forget.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: N/A - FERRIED WITH SSR MAIL.

* * *

** **ВОЕННО-МОРСКОЙ ФЛОТ ОТДЕЛ СВЯЗИ КРАСНОЙ АРМИИ** **

* * *

(ЦЕНЗОР ШТАМП - ОЧИЩЕНО) 

K: REBECCA BARNES, OT: SGT JAMES BARNES 

3421 45 HILLREST ST. NEW JERSEY АДРЕС: ****LOCATION REDACTED****

Дата: APRIL 04,1944

* * *

_I’M ALIVE. COOL YOUR CHOPS. HOW’S MOTHERFUCKING CHARLIE?_

_BUCKY._

. . .

Colonel Karpov calls him in and informs him there’s been an attack by Hydra forces in the South, two days after Illya clued him - which further clues him in that** Illya** -_ probably wasn’t supposed to fucking do that_. But he did.

Bucky has to act like he doesn’t already know about it.

. . .

** **[STAMPED] - LOST IN TRANSIT. SHOT DOWN by unidentified German Focke-Wulf.** **

** ** ORIGNAL FORWARDED - EXPECTED IN 25-30 DAYS.** **

* * *

** **

** **SSR STAMP: INTEL FERRY DESTROYED/INTERCEPTED, HYDRA SUSPECTED. MORE SURVEILLANCE FLIGHTS NEEDED.** **

* * *

DATE RECIEVED: UNRECIEVED.

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - _ ** _ **REDACTED** _ ** _] _

* * *

_TO_: SGT. JAMES BARNES _FROM:_ REBECCA BARNES

****LOCATION: REDACTED**** 3421 45 HILLCREST ST. NEW JERSEY

_DATE: _11TH APRIL 1944

* * *

_Charlie is motherfucking great you gigantic turd._

_Hallelujah who art thou in heaven - it’s only taken you what - four months to fucking write me after getting torched up and captured - and rescued By Captain shitting America aka. The reckless tosspot that is Steve Rodgers. And that’s what I get? I’M ALIVE, COOL YOUR CHOPS._

** _ **What the fuck ** _ ** _Bucky? If I were pa I’d call you by your full name to show you how fucking red with anger I’ve been getting._

_Instead you’ve been making me get the secondhand from Steve - who’s great, but he’s not exactly great on giving me the gossip I need to get. And then Jen and Lils. Do you have any idea how upset they’ve been - especially since the missing-in-action telegram that got to them before I did?_

_I’ve been thinking of forging one to send them pretending I’m you so they stop sabotaging their dates ‘cause they’re so damn worried about you instead of having a good time. Christ Almighty._

_And no, I don’t feel bad whatsoever about spending most of the letter cursing you out even if it makes you feel like more shit. You deserve it. You fucker._

_Okay. Fine. I’m done. For now. So, what’s eating you, huh? Steve said you were being funny. Which is Steve-speak for being worried. Which is _ ** _ **worrisome** _ ** _ since he’s the one who actually gets to see you every day. So talk to someone. Me if not him. I promise to be an unsympathetic ear if that’s what you need - to like get it out. Like we used to. Go on, rant at me and I’ll shut it until your done and then tell you to suck it up. Just like tradition. Or send you a hug in a letter if you actually make me feel sorry for you, which will take a lot. So give it a go. You’re obviously not talking to him._

_What the hell language is that on the stamp. Are you in _ ** _ **[BLACK]** _ ** _. The hell you doing there?_

_Becca_

. . .

That attack he’s not supposed to already know about - yeah, they get the numbers back. It’s…a lot.

. . .

There’s bickering across the way - shouting that is not _В очереди! (_**_**in line**_**_!)_ or_ Отчет (_**_**report!**_**_) _from Comrade Agapov’s hut; going too fast and too sharp for Bucky to fully distinguish. He does the same as before - he ducks sharply round the corner, grabs a tool sleeve automatically and cranks open the bonnet of a D-8 armoured truck, pretends to tinker as if he’s fixing it. He smears oil up his forearms, wipes a swipe of it across his forehead to sell the game, with one eye - but both ears -on the doorframe.

He’s too far away to hear, or he should be - but he’s always had great hearing. He used to say he inherited an extra ear when he met Steve; who was already one ear down. There’s several voices; one snapping; the rest quiet, and he hears the word he recognizes as _Slovechno_.

The attack at the border. There’s more too it; clearly - from the fact there’s _another_ conversation going on - one that’s getting more heated with each moment that passes. The words are too fast - and by the time he’s forced the translation through - he’s eight words behind. He pulls out his notebook, dumps it on the side panel in front of him - and flicks through blacked out page, measurements, diagram, calculations, blacked out page, troop formation, blacked out page, blacked out page, blacked out page, noughts and crosses matches with Dernier, blacked out page, diagram, caluc “come on, come on,”he flicks past Steve’s handwriting until he’s at the next free one.

He scribbles down the phonetic sounds he hears for later; a stream of them going left to right; swinging up and off the lines to keep up. He pretends to check the break fluid reservoir in a break in conversation; smiles and waves at Yuri. Yuri points at the open bonnet and rolls his eyes as Bucky shrugs good-naturely; shouting that he’s “engines, good” with a thumbs up and atrocious pronouciation. Yuri pretends to run away before he can also be corralled for a similar job.

“Better you than me.” Bucky thinks he calls over in Russian, which disrupts the stream Bucky’s ears are following - and he ends up writing that down instead. He laughs in his direction, then swears “_fuck_” and crosses it out before he gets confused when he looks over it later.

The shouting has cooled - and someone opens the door and holds it open - a none so subtle hint to _leave_ \- he can glimpse Agapov; at his desk, Sobel pacing, and the corner of what he thinks is Illya’s leg just off the edge. Looks like Agapov’s secretary and second in command - the one Bucky thinks is called _Artem something _\- is in there too; the secretary is at the door, and Sobel is the one causing the commotion.

He’s pretty sure Sobel was just told to shut up, in no uncertain terms - though likely in far more professional ones. There’s more, so the door looks like it's about to close again in wavered response - but it's enough for some anyway. Sobel storms out mid _Оружие, _slams the door behind him. The conversation continues - quieter; lower. It’s still in Bucky’s range - and with each word his eyes are drawn further and further uplooking in

The tent flap opens - and he jerks away quickly, digging his hands into the engine to disguise his attention; and the wrench clangs against the side of the alternator. With his heart suddenly pounding the way it is - it sounds blatant and ringing. He catches it with one hand with a quick movement, bent sideways before it hits the ground; and Illya sees him.

He returns to the engine, covered in oil with his notebook similarly smeared, pretending he hasn’t seen Illya see him. He strikes up a faint hum, opening up the coolant gasket, and keeps working; concealing the notebook from view. The page it closes on is Steve’s Gaelic.

. . .

“My cousin.” Illya says that night. “He was at Slovechno.”

“Dead?” Bucky asks quietly.

Illya makes some sort of sound, and leans back against the concrete. Yuri’s voice murmurs across the radio. He’s their communication point-man for the night, at the highest height. Sergei and Yvanka answer him. They’re not needed right now. But Bucky feels like he needs to be here.

“It would be better. If he were.” Illya says after a moment.

_Otherwise it means Hydra has him._

“I came across these people in Krakow in their taken territory.” Illya continues, ”They didn’t have a camp as big as they do in Poland - classified,” he says before Bucky can ask, _what camps? _“but“ he trails off. Then begins: “we are harsh, in my country. Cruel; people from the West say - but we are not so immoral as that.”

“Hydra are who we’re hunting.” Bucky announces, after a moment. It’s an admittance that he supposes a lot of people don’t know. ”My squad - my Captain - they’re our real mission - not this war.”

“I know.” Illya declares, and looks at him sideways, “This is why I told you.”

_Translates to: This is why I told you in the dark of night, when I made sure no one else could hear - because I wasn’t supposed to - and if I didn’t - maybe no one would have done._ Illya Kuraykin never does anything without a deliberate reason.

Bucky nods, “right. Why did you do that again?”

Illya stares straight ahead, “You know why I did, pinostan.”

“There’s someone on the inside, isn’t there?”

A ghost of some sort of smile crosses Illya’s face. “Everyone is loyal in the Soviet Union.”

It’s all he says. Bucky watches Illya for a moment, then very subtly checks their surroundings. “Who, Illya?”

“I cannot say.”

“Illya, for fucks sake. Your cousin is dead. Who?”

“When we hang the capitalists they will sell us the rope we use to hang them after.”

“Well, I’m not a fucking Capitalist, am I?” Bucky snaps and Illya laughs, “I don’t give a shit what your political ideals are, I care about how many people are dying. It won’t leave this---” _room. _He corrects: “It won’t pass this night. Circle of trust and all that.”

Illya laughs at that more, “you are too smart to trust people, pinostan. And I am smarter than you.”

“I swear to you - nothing will lead back to you.”

“Everything always leads back to everyone, in the end. Even the eyes have eyes; just because you cannot see them does not mean they are not looking back. But I cannot tell you because I do not know.”

After a moment - “would you tell me, if you did?”

“Would I betray my country, do you mean? You are no fool either, so don’t pretend to be one.”

_Then, why?_

“Fine.” Bucky allows stubbornly. “You don’t know, but you suspect. That’s what you’re not saying.”

“Do not put words in my mouth. You know what_ you_ suspect because you suspected before.”

“And _you know _what would be great? If _you_ stopped trying to twist my words in circles. You’re fucking impossible Illya. How can I help you if you won’t give me bupkis?”

Illya raises an eyebrow.

“When you won’t give me the shittest bit of shit.” He translates.

Illya huffs under his breath. “What makes you think _you_ have the power to even help, pinostan?” Illya counters.

Bucky sucks against this teeth, shakes his head and stubbornly looks away. _Point._

“My Captain can help.” He decides.“Information is information. If we have it - we can stop this stuff from happening. We’re in the best position to stop it - that is, we’re in the best position when a quarter of us aren’t stuck vomiting out stupid fish stew with a cock-eyed Ivan halfway across the world.” Illya snorts. Bucky declares: “And you wouldn’t have mentioned Slovanko to me days ago if you didn’t think I could do something about it.”

Yuri speaks over the radio. Bucky isn’t paying attention enough to get even close to possibly providing a translation for himself for that one, but he doesn’t care - because when Illya picks up the radio to answer Bucky slaps it out of his hand, and sharply ducks Illya’s fist.

A breath comes harshly through his nose.

“_Pinostan._” It’s a warning.

Bucky doesn’t back down. “You said it yourself, I’m too smart to trust people. And you’re smarter. You wouldn’t have told me if you didn’t have a specific reason Illya - you don’t do anything without a fucking reason. You don’t take a single rogue shot without thinking through every single fucking element seventeen times over. You don’t_ go for shit _\- without thinking about how long it’ll take you to pull your trousers down and get it done so you know how long you’ll be off the line. You might think I don’t know what’s going on around here - but I know more than I reckon you’ve given me credit for.” His...friend (?), comrade (?), teacher (?), unknown enemy (?), adversary (?) raises an eyebrow in challenge. Bucky meets it, as dangerous as it could be._ Tit for tat._ “I know about the money. I know about the exchange.”

“What money?” It’s automatic, and expected.

“_Exactly_.” Bucky answers, eyebrows raised. “I know _you’re_ not Red Army - not really. Not before at least.” Illya’s expression doesn’t change - a perfect poker face, but Bucky knows he’s being considered. “_You know what you know when you know who to ask_, right? Remember that? Which means you’ve access to information I don’t--”

“I will not betray my country pino”

“I’m not asking you to!” Bucky hisses, getting closer. “It’s not betraying your country when they’re already betraying you.”

“_That_” Illya declares slowly; pointedly, “is a very_ very_ dangerous perspective.”

“Potato-potato. Fucking sue me. You think someone is in cahoots with them, so who do you suspect?”

Illya again says nothing, but Bucky’s never been one for giving in in the middle of a fight. There’s a reason he’s a welterweight champion three years running in his district. “I’ll name names at you - punch me in the face if I’m on the beam - that give you incentive to give me a fucking answer. The chance to lay one on me good and proper.”

“I do not need an excuse to ‘lay one on you good and proper’. I can easily break you in a minute.”

Bucky ignores that, and starts naming every name he’s heard in the vicinity, and every name he knows who isn’t. “Agapov. Balakin, Krukpin, Bykov,”

“Chief Starshina Krukpin.” Illya corrects as he always does.

“Borisyuk, Orlov, Semenov - Yuri - fucking Nina.” He doesn’t get punched for any. “Karpov. Sobel, Mikhailovich”

“Colonel Karpov. _Marshall_ Mikhailovich.” Comes the forceful corrections. “If I punch you - it will be for your disrespect and nothing else. These men you name as traitors, they are great men of the order. Men worthy of regard. Do not insult them or me without giving them deference.”

“I’ll give them fucking deference when they prove to me they’re not selling us out to Hydra.” He hisses.

“Which you will not get without great insult to their face - from you. A Sergeant from West who, like all Americans,” Illya spits, “thinks himself better than the rest--”

“I don’t” Bucky bites out.

“Look in the mirror - the truth of it is in the body. I see it, even if you don’t. You give too much away.” He shakes his head. “You might not be soft like the rest of the West, but you are no better than them. And youyour people - what’s to say it’s not them selling information? Hm?”

Bucky’s stonewalled into silence there, and he turns away, his anger inexplicably cooling; flushed down the drain. He wishes suddenly that he was at Brooklyn Pier, stood on the edge of the worn wood with his toes cresting the drop - where all he can smell if he closes his eyes is salty sea air. He tries. All he can smell is mud and his own sweat. “I’m...I’m not.”

“Hm.” Illya repeats shortly, also stony, but his eyes are open as he looks out into the dark. The disbelief and dismissal is clear.

“I’m different.”

“Others say this to me. They are all the same. Pride is the downfall of many.”

“And what of your pride?”

“My pride is my country.”

“Mine’s in my family. In my Captain. Not in my country.”

“Then you should be ashamed.”

“Wow, Illya. Nice.” Bucky snarks, sarcastic._ Blunt as ever. Fucking Russians. “_That’s real nice.”

“I am not trying to be nice. I am honest, like you want me to be. If you have no pride in your country, then it is not your country. Or do you have more pride for my country? You like it here better than where you were before - _you don’t hide here_.”

That is an observation that is scarily correct, one Bucky didn’t even really want to admit to himself. And Illya saw it. _You give too much away_. Now that, that is_ also_ a test if he ever heard one.

“No.” Bucky replies. “I like your people. Not your country. From what I can tell it’s filled with just as many liars the higher it goes as mine is. They lie to you and tell you you’re doing God’s work by shipping out and get ripped through with holes, and how your sacrifice is worth a thousand all while knowing they’ll never put a foot in the same blood-slicked mud and do the same. They lie and say it’s for freedom, when really - really it’s about gaining territory - and they tell you it’s right to shoot rounds of shells into a German town just because it’s German - and it doesn’t matter if there’s kids there too. Just casualties of war. I like real freedom. When my America is free the way it’s supposed to be - then maybe I’ll be proud of it again. Otherwise - the men running it can go fuck themselves.”

Illya scoffs in dismissal. “You would not say these things to your commander’s faces<strike> “</strike><strike></strike>

“Yes.” Bucky cuts in. “I would.”

“Then how you have not been shot for your insolence I do not know.”

Bucky leans his head back and sucks on his cheek. “If I thought they were working with Hydra,” he decides slowly, ”I’d get my knives out. I’d get them out and I’d make sure they’d screamed out all the names of every single traitor before I finished them for good. Even if it were Philips. Even if it were Eisenhower.”

Illya turns to him again. “You have a lot of feelings about this.” He notes. Then turns to the dark again. “I, unlike you, do have pride. You will get no more from me. I suppose you will have to ask to find out who to ask _to know what you know _for yourself. I cannot help you.”

“I’m not asking for me. But for my Captain. He’s a good man, thethe best man. He won’t let us down.” He tries one more time. “There are no eyes here. If you just hint about what you suspect then--”

“I cannot. I cannot because I don’t know, Barnes.” Illya says, and its the first time he has ever used Bucky’s real name. “That is the thing. There are many it could be, and there are also none. I cannot suspect because I do not know who to suspect, even I did. Which I don’t. Because everyone is loyal in the Soviet Union.”

It’s clear nothing else will come from it. They sit into the night, stewing and barely speaking outside of answering the radio and noting suspicious spots in the dark. They track three Special Operative German Soldiers who have snuck into Soviet Territory from Dresden - spies - who think they have succeeded in escaping notice. They’ll be ambushed by dawn as the information is relayed over the line, Bucky can guess, waiting for the orders to shoot on new sight to return.

“You’re right by the way.” Bucky breaks the personal silence hours later. “In hoping your cousin’s dead. It’s better Hydra don’t have him.”

“I know this.” It’s flat, and sarcastic.

Bucky swallows. “…They had me. For a while.”

Illya looks at him, and keeps looking. It’s the quickest movement he’s made all night - in that it’s so quick Bucky thinks he might have actually shocked the unshockable man. He doesn’t say, _really?_ Or_ they did?_ Or _how long?_ Or _where? _Or_ what happened to you? _

_“_That’s why I care so much. It’s why I care about nothing else but, but killing _all of them,” _he stresses_,_ “sometimes. A lot of the time. I didn’t used to feel this way, but they made me. I used to be soft, like the rest of the ‘West.’” Amazingly, a sweet kind of sardonic smile graces his lips.

Again, Illya does not ask, _when? Or how long? Or where? Or what did they do to you to break you so completely? _He doesn’t ask_ where did my best friend go, because you’re not him_. Bucky’s not the only one who gives too much away. Steve’s a shitty liar. The serum unlike the rest of it didn’t change that.

The agitation that normally flares whenever anyone mentions _what happened_; let alone when _he_ tries to talk about it doesn’t rear. It helps the words. Illya’s listening, he’s _listening_ and not trying to fix it in ways that will never fix it.

“You don’t come out the same side you came in on. If you come out at all… It’s better he’s dead.”

“Then I pray that he is.”

“I _am_ sorry, by the way. About your cousin.”

“Thank you, pinostan.”

. . .

His own styled phonetic alphabet is only half helpful - but he gets something.

Шестьсот. шестьсот захваченных или мертвых? Как это происходит? Что мы выздоровели?. Шестьсот. шестьсот захваченных или мертвых? Как это происходит? Что мы выздоровели? Это не ваше дело, Sobel. Ходят слухи о мужчинах в металле. перевозящих танковые орудия. 

SHEST - six, he translates - numbers he’s knows now. He hasn’t stood by the wrong truck again since that second first day in the field. SHEST STO - Six hundred - the real number of men lost? Did they lie? Or six hundred of something else?

He also manages to translate _Слухи_ to rumours - he thinks. And maybe - men in metal? _Оружие_ \- guns is easy - he knows that one too - and the bit before…tank-craft guns? Anti tank guns? Airbourne guns? Which kind of guns?

TECT is in there somewhere too, TECT means Test.

. . .

He sits very still, breathes in and out slowly; trying to time it to the ticking of the clock on the far wall of the sleeping trench, seeming louder than all the conversations going on around him. It’s only the regular tempo of that clock, and the memory of his pa, that keeps him from going into the quartermasters and breaking every piece of crockery with his bare hands. He doesn’t even care if he wakes anyone and they all see him. Dernier might understand, he thinks, maybe even Illya too now. Or not - he would just say to sit on it and let it stew with everything else, even knowing now as he does.

Steve would smash up a whole building for him, so he didn’t have to do the damage himself. He’d also probably stand there in the corner and give Bucky pointers he didn’t need, then tape up his knuckles for him after.

He did that once for him, after the first match he fought since his pa had been killed in Africa. He hadn’t wanted to do it, he remembers, but it was booked in and it was against the son of his pop’s rival back in the day, and his ma had said he should do it. That it might help him feel close to pa again. Bucky had snapped - _“how that was rich coming from her seeing as she’d spent the last decade getting close to other men instead of his papa.”_

His dead papa.

His dead-in-the-dirt-who-he-was-never-gonna-see-again papa. This is what happens when his father’s not here to help him work out all the anger - it builds and builds - then he explodes, and he cuts _deep_.

He still fought though.

He still won though.

Steve had spent the evening in his corner, yelling encouragement (and sometimes not,) along with recommended sequences that Steve had no possible ability of ever doing himself; and after in the backroom Bucky had punched a locker and Steve had told him to _“sit the hell down, Mowgli.”_

Mowgli was one of their many nicknames for each other from their earliest years_. Mowgli _for Bucky, the wild kid who lived and swung from the city like Mowgli did the jungle, and Steve had for himself _Mush -_ because the only thing he could eat for the whole Winter when they were eleven was mushed-anything. He’d hated it, so they’d moved onto _Duracell _for his spark-off energy like a well charged battery. Then to _Sweet Stuff _and _Half Pint_, and _Ghosty_, and _punk-jerk-asshole-doofus_; the never ending list.

Bucky had kicked the bin into the wall in response, and then sat; spiteful point made. Steve, without blinking, had taken Bucky’s hands and unwrapped each one, checked the bones just like he’d witnessed George Barnes do every match in every year since they were fourteen, and asked him if he needed ice for anything.

_Bucky shook his head; almost began balling his eyes out for Christ himself then and there._

_“He got a good crack at your head. One of the only cracks he got in all match mind you,” Steve allows seconds later, “but good enough that it might bruise. You sure?”_

_“Didn’t feel it.” Bucky answers, staring at the sweaty towel draped over the bench across from them. He can hear rowdy cheering going on from the main ring, the next weight category starting up._

_Steve slaps the ice on his jaw anyway. “You were so good out there, pal. Like I’ve never seen you before.”_

_“Guess the anger’s good for something then.” _

_Steve pauses for a moment, then shifts his hands over Bucky’s knuckles, pressing down on his third to check it. “I know tonight was really hard for you. “ He says. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I was angry too…when I lost ma.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I took a lot of it out on you and_ _ _ _”_

_“_ _ _ _I’m not gonna’ take mine out on you Prince Charming, don’t worry about that_ _ _ _”_

_“I’m_ _ _ _that’s not what I meant. I’m just…I get how hard this was. But you did it. And I’m real proud of you for it. Your pop would be too.” He nudges Bucky in the side. “I mean, hell Bucky, you rinsed that smuck and wiped the floor with him. The look on _ ** _ **his ** _ ** _pop’s face - your pa will be dancing about in heaven no doubt.”_

_Bucky gets out a thin, but honest smile, something in him swelling to stop the tears. Steve’s so fucking good with him, man, Christ. “I was kinda’ spectacular, huh?”_

_“At the risk of you getting an even bigger head?” Steve replies, “yes. Yes you were.”_

A few months ago, Steve told him about the time he found out about the Jewish ghettos from the newspapers, way back when he was still in the Great US of A. (_What camps? Those camps?_) He’d said that he felt like his stomach had been opened up, wrenched apart and stapled back together.

Bucky did the math - because he likes math, and the date that newspaper came out was the probably the same week that Zola wrenched apart his stomach with clamps that first time.

He wonders if Steve can vicariously feel the anger in him a thousand miles away, like he seemed to feel that.

He wants to smash something. Morita would probably declare it one of those healthy coping mechanisms and join in if he were here. He’s not. Bucky’s alone.

That’s a lie; to himself more than anything else. No, he’s not.

“Are eu’ alright?” Dernier’s voice is soft, hoarse. He’s just heard.

He’s mostly unscathed from his cock-a-mamy stunt blowing up a tank (Bucky will never stop being impressed); a collection of scrapes up alongside his face where he caught it on the rotary beneath, and a vague burn on his elbow, but other than that - he’s clear. Bucky’s bullet score mark on his calf has gone in the meantime, which tells him he was right; it was nothing. There was no more than a blood smear on the skin when he hit the freezing ass shower yesterday five days late. So clearly nowhere near as bad as the mottled cuts up Dernier’s brow-bone, crusted with only a little bit of oil Bucky made sure to wipe out for him after. You can say what you want about him, but infection - infection he takes fucking seriously. Sarah taught him better than that.

He hasn’t moved at all on the other cot, but he’s watching him. He, like Bucky, is lighter now, yes; with the ability to do something -_ to be useful,_ but there are still dark shadows under his eyes. The last few days haven’t been kind to any of them. The trenches don’t make anything easy - and though they’re advancing - they’re advancing slow. The only good part of Bucky’s week so far was Dernier’s elaborate bow to him as the tank smitherned itself into oblivion twenty feet ahead of him.

“No. Not really.” He shifts slightly, tucking one arm under the pillow to clasp at the barrel of his Colt there. Steady. Bucky has to be steady. Dependable. Useful. He can’t be useful when he’s blinded with anger like this, just as he can’t be useful when he’s sleep-deprived and seeing Andrew flickering in and out at the corner of his eye.

He can be steady. _Come on._

“I got a letter through to Steve.” He whispers in French, “coded. About what happened.”

Dernier turns on his side; “about the attack, or about the money?”

“Both.”

“Do we know what th' money was for?”

Bucky just shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s like they were all speaking in riddles, I couldn’t….I have no….something else will come back. I just…don’t know when and don’t know why. Or how…or anything.” He hisses out a shaky sigh, drills the edge of his fist into the metal frame of the cot.

“It was e’ lot people.” Dernier says quietly, after a solemn silence. The attack on the border. Yes. A lot of people.

“Yeah.”

“A um, how you saybig hitter. This wasn’t just e’ blown checkpoint.” Dernier has already come to the same conclusion as Bucky, if perhaps, with a different starting point. “Testing out defences, maybe? Get a lay of numbers and artillery?”

“Maybe.” Bucky muses quietly, “pretty sure they got their answer.”

“Any survivors?”

Bucky shrugs at the ceiling, chewing the side of his cheek. “It’s too convenient.” He turns over to face Jacques. “Don’t you think?”

Jacques matches him. “In, ah’, what way?”

“I don’t knowjustit wasn’t random. There was some sort of shipment - some sort of recovery that Hydra got hold of.”

“Why do ‘ou think that?”

“It was the same at Azzano…sorta. ’Hydra…They didn’t attack us - and the Krauts -,” he amends after a second, swallowing, “at Azzano _just _to get prisoners. They I saw them going after something else after. They kept advancing. I heard the word tempel from the commanders; tempel (****temple****) and Artefakt (****artifact****) - which don’t need translating. It’s kinda self-explanatory. Gabe heard it too - and Steve knows. It went up to Philips and that lot too - not that I think they’ve flagged it all that much. Too many other things more important. Which is…it’s fair. But it..it feels the same. They were going for something - something they knew the when and where of.”

“Shipment,” Dernier muses, “not stationary target. You know this how?”

“They let on a little more to me than they did you. I also may have…eavesdropped more than I should.”

Dernier very carefully asks, “did anyone see you?”

Just because he wasn’t seen the first time, doesn’t mean he wasn’t this time - but it’s also not anything new to what a lot of them have already done when out scouting in the field. Dernier’s good at blending in too. The commandos always ask this question, from Morita and Gabe right they way up to Steve. They don’t have to ask Peggy - because Peggy is _never_ seen.

Bucky shakes his head, “Noone…noone important. Pretty sure I’m in the clear.”

Dernier nods, and after a moment says: “If it was a shipment, it wasn’t very covert. You think something leaked?”

“Or someone?” He queries.

“In the Red Army? Or in the SSR? Or”

“I don’t know. One of them. Illya thinks so too.”

Dernier almost sits up at that, eyebrows raised. “Did he tell you this?” He asks quickly.

Bucky has to admit, pulling a face. “Well, no. But--I can just tell.“ He growls out loud, and then the metal beneath his fist groans with the force. “_Christ._ It feels like we got dropped into the middle of a chess game without getting a look at the board. We’re going to have to prepare for just about everything.”

So much to think about, so much to consider. Too much._ If this is happening here, what is happening in London? In France, in Italy, in Romania, in everywhere else?_ He’s heard Hitler has a fetish for mythology - but Hydra’s all about the science…isn’t it? So why is the word_ artefakt _spinning around and around in his brain? Everything they did to Bucky, that was pure science, right? That was Hydra’s hard on - test-tubes and coupling devices and explosives - not Hercules’ lion-maned cloak or Persephone’s pomegranates. But then - there’s the whole_ cut off one head and two more will takes it’s place_<strike></strike>

Christ Bucky, you idiot, it’s in the fucking name.

There was all those symbols scrawled in notebooks they found in Czechoslovakia, that Steve swears on his life he’s seen before - in the library at home. He couldn’t bring up the memory of what - but he remembers the where, sat at the table between Shelves B-D and E-F of Non-Fiction. He bets Steve’s already figured it out.

What the fuck is going on?

“Good thing I am ‘gougood at chess. Family champion four years running.”

Bucky laughs without humour, drilling his hand in deeper. Something dents beneath his fingers. “At least one of us is. God - why am I so fucking angry about it? It’s not like they did it to me.”

Dernier just nods, fishes under his own cot to his holster roll; and chucks something square and solid across the way. Bucky catches it with one hand easily, and turns it over.

“This is the last of your chocolate.” He declares to Jacques.

“I know.” The man says, “but chocolate was designed to make you feel better - why do you think I am so happy all the time?”

Bucky huffs a small chortle even as the usual rage sits heavy in his chest. “That the answer to the world’s problems then, huh? Chocolate for everyone.”

“Qui. ‘Tis.”

“Someone should throw some at Himmler’s face - see if he cools his nuts and backs off for a bit so we can get a fucking break for once.”

Dernier chuckles, turning over to face the ceiling. He smiles a little, Bucky thinks, as he looks through the dark. “Have it. Let it melt on your tongue. All e’ anger will melt away with it.”

“Thanks Jacques, you’re a good’un.”

. . .

The chocolate melts, and he does feel a little better.

. . .

The anger still comes, even when he pushes _back back back._

He calls to the angel Uriel in those moments, not to God. He has a new religion within his old religion, even though the Bible says not to pray to the angels themselves as deities. And it’s not a prayer, what Bucky does, more a call to arms, a call forward. It’s Uriel he goes to as as he's the angelic spirit the faithful go to to let go of destructive emotions like anxiety and anger. They say he helps as without; it can prevent believers from discerning wisdom or recognizing dangerous situations until it’s too late, and Bucky doesn’t know if that’s true, but as a concept it makes sense - just like the not-sleeping could cause an accident in the field one day.

A year into their friendship - Steve won a super special expensive book in Bible Study, inlaid with glorious coloured illustrations. He got to keep it for three months, and he kept it almost, if not more, as treasured as he does his mother’s bible now.

There was printed pages of battles; The Garden of Eden; Adam and Eve; Cain and Abel; and all the stories, with icons of the angels in painstaking detail. The one of Uriel, Bucky remembers, was holding a book, with red wings and a red and golden sun radiating from behind his head, green and yellow fields and trees under his feet.

The Archangel Raphael was stood with a sword and a child, hand in hand, with blocks of buildings from Nazareth behind him. He had red wings too.

The Archangel Gabriel had a trumpet, ready to blow it to the heavens when God chose to return to Earth - which will probably be never.

The Archangel of all Archangels Michael is never stood in pose like the others - all images of him Bucky has ever seen have always been in battle, a breadth away from landing the final blow. The main one in Steve’s book, on his own icon page, he was stood on the neck of a horned man, with a long spear; top shaped as a cross; raised up above his head. Sometimes he’s drawn also carrying the scales of justice, weighing up good and evil.

It's unsurpirisng that, like the pictures in Church, these were his favourite part, and he doesn’t remember any of the words they used to come with; despite how Steve used to dictate them at him, but he remembers the illustrations.

. . .

Don’t be angry. Be happy. Have some chocolate. You can’t be everywhere at once.

. . .

Control the dreams - control your sleep - _get _some sleep. How did ma fucking do it again?

Dernier tells him to eat more chocolate.

. . .

Bucky trades two pheasants he shot for two bars of chocolate - which Ivanka tells him is a terrible trade as she tries to slide into his sleeping bag. Bucky rolls away, zips up and tells her it’s a great one. Because - _chocolate _\- and chocolate makes you happy.

“Я могу сделать тебя счастливой к сегодняшнему вечеру. Мы одни. Мама Нина на страже.” (****I could make you happy for tonight. We are alone. Mama Nina is on guard****.)

Bucky’s not entirely sure what she said, but he can guess. “No, thank you.”

Ivanka raises an eyebrow at him, gestures to herself in her thick coat. In broken English she says: “Youdo not want this? I ammuch nicer under”

“I’m sure you are.” Bucky interrupts quickly, “you’re very beautiful - but not tonight.”

“Another?” She offers, “good to, keep warm.”

Bucky snorts. “That’s aУбедительная точка” (****persuasive point****) he laughs, “but no. It’s. Не Вы (****not you****).”

“You have nice face. I have nice face.” Ivanka says, “we put them together”

“Оставь Иванку. Он имеет в виду, что он не может получить его. Было бы пустой тратой вашего времени.”**** (********Leave off Ivanka. He means he can’t get it up. Would be a waste of your time.)****

Bucky lifts his head, and eyes the glimmer of Mama Nina in the dark. “If you said what I think you just said -” He declares, “Затем винт от мамы N (****then screw off Mama N****.)”

“Так ты можешь получить его, хм? (****So you can get it up, hmm?****)” She retaliates instead of telling him to watch his mouth around women.

“Я…могу ****(I…can****).”

It’s a lie. He can’t. He hasn’t be able to for months, and trust him - he’s _tried._ He’s tried fucking hard. He gave his condoms to Dugan seeing as they were going to be no use for him, even if he _wanted_ to. So, chocolate.

“Then keep Ivanka warm, all women need to be warm.”

The younger woman looks at Bucky. He offers a few squares of the chocolate. She rolls her eyes. “Американцы странные.” (****Americans are strange.****) She tells Nina, ignoring that he’s actually getting better that the whole Russian thing. “Все мужчины хотят переспать со мной. Но не этот.****”**** (****All men want to sleep with me. But not this one****) She turns to Bucky, gets out in rough English. “Fine. I go Yuri later. He is easy.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh.“I admire your commitment.”

Fifty-five year old Nina, who is far far to old to be speaking of such things -_ yuck_, later says: “Вы должны спать с женщиной, когда они предлагают - может помочь вашей проблеме больше, чем ваши собственные руки.” (****You should sleep with woman when they offer - might help your problem more than your own hands.****)

“У меня нетпроблем” (****I don’thave problem.****) Bucky iterates.

_Yes you do. _

Eat some chocolate.

He does, then he eats the other pheasant he has to keep his blood warm - and gives the other bar and a half to Dernier - because you know what - he went out with them yesterday and took out a score of men - and he already fucking deserved it before that.

“Give me a couple of days,” he tells him, “and they’ll be more where that came from sunshine.”

. . .

While they are over the line in Belarus, with Yuri, his accompanist today - they bed themselves down in a huge shell pit in and among a collection of fallen trees, an old exploded shack and piles of straw. This used to be a farm. He has his Springfield levered against a beam, on his belly, the muzzle covered and poking through a hole in a metal roofing sheet. Yuri is in a similar position - and swallows a mouthful of vodka as he waits.

Bucky holds back a smirk, catching the motion from the corner of his eye. Yuri is not as fluent in English as Illya; a shoe-maker from the North Siberian Islands; he’s had no reason to learn. He understands more than he can say. He’s an expert in rocky mountainous and snowy terrain. Bucky gets all elements of expertise at his disposal.

He turns to Bucky; whispers: “хотите поменяться”

“What?” He whispers back - “what does that mean?”

He motions at their rifles. “Своп.” He repeats, a more simpler word.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Swap?” He asks to clarify.

Yuri raises an eyebrow in challenge, he’s nearly nineteen. He joined the war at sixteen. He gets out in broken English. “Betyoubeshit.”

“Just for that - bring it.” Bucky tells him; and checks they’re in the clear before they move. He rolls under as Yuri rolls over him, swapping places. “What was that word again?” He checks. “Swap?”

“Своп.”

“Своп.” Bucky repeats, checking the pronunciation. Yuri nods. “Alright. Своп.” Bucky sounds out again, learning.

The rifle feels very different to a Springfield, narrow barrel, different length - in feel; sighted scope; and probably recoil when he gets a chance to shoot it. He could easily get used to it he imagines, but like most _Mosin’s_ it’s tailored to Yuri’s particular alterations.

“Phwoah.” Yuri sounds out, more of an astonished hum. When Bucky glances at him with one eye he’s got his in the scope, pulling away and back again.

“GoodХорошо - не так ли??” (“****Good. Isn’t it?****”)

“Чтwhat”

“Magnification?” Bucky checks, “x4 to x5. Not AmericanАмериканский нет. (“****American no****.”) Yuri flashes him a glance. “Американский…” (“****American…****” he taps the scope to signify as he finds the correct descriptor he wants to use. “гребаное дерьмо.” (“****Fuckin’ shit****”). Yeah, that sounds about right. “ Это ебаное дерьмо, Yuri. Так дерьмо.” (****“They’re fucking shit, Yuri, so shit.****”)

His companion bites his lip to withhold a smile at the camaraderie he’s trying to include him in now his usual companions that he comrades with are gone to the wind - or stuck further back behind the line. “Тогда чтоW (****Then--what?****)”

“Zeiss.” Bucky says. “German.”

Yuri jolts back with disgust and spits to the side in response to that.

“They’re better. Even you can tell they’re better.” He says slowly so he can follow. “I didn’t buy it if that makes you feel better.” he adds, “a parting gift I took from an enemy sniper.”

Yuri still pulls a face - “That’s_bit_,” he emphasizes, “Лучше (****better****).” Then he goes back to the scope - checking it in and out again.

When the targets come into sight Bucky suggests, “Вы - не так ли?” (“You - right?”) to him. Yuri shoots the targets on the right as an answer - so Bucky takes that as a yes and shoots those on the left. It’s a heavier recoil, but just as good.

. . .

He gets a guy at nearly a thousand yards, right in the solar plexus, his best shot yet. Illya laughs silently, accent thick; claps him on the shoulder under the sheet of metal they’re hiding under. He says: “Not too shitty for a _pindostan_.” 

He’s found his niche and he’s excelling at it.

. . .

Steve writes, _Oh, I went to church yesterday. It was, and wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be._

Bucky begins to write back across his knee as he reads,_ was it a big one, or a small one?_ It’s good to hear about Steve’s day to day, but he doesn’t ask why it was or wasn’t as satisfying as Steve thought it would be; because from someone whose always found such solace in religion, Bucky knows won’t be anything good. It’ll be something complicated and convoluted, something sad that left Steve feeling conflicted - and Bucky is trying to be happy. He’s trying to keep his mood up, or at the very least level. He’s protecting himself.

It sounds like Steve’s been stirring up trouble with all the woman too - Peggy _and_ Becca. Bucky is tempted to ask him, like he did his ma, if he’s going for a record. He’s also trying not to be so naive - he says, and Bucky is glad to hear that. Glad to hear he’s not trusting every Dick, Tom and Harry - it reassures him that Bucky doesn’t have to be the one in his ear doing it for him.

Steve also writes _Jack’s complaining about the weather a lot, and a bunch of his post when missing a couple of weeks ago. _

Bucky stops reading mid breakfast roll, checks where he is; motions to Bykov he’s going to piss. He goes left instead of right when he’s out of view; ducking under the spray of mud as a_ Panzerschreck_ shell lands above the trench but not in range. The Soviet’s tanks fire back; and roll over the bridge - breaking the line. They’ve been breaking the line, nearly getting blown up, and retreating for hours now. It’s the middle of Spring 1944, and Operation Bagration has begun. The result of Bucky’s and all his friend’s sniper scouts now means they have the German numbers for their side. The numbers needed at the Ukrainian border have been demolished by Hydra’s attack - right before they lit the Bagration flare. They’re moving on anyway with no delay.

Bucky is a small cog in an infinitely huge machine, and knows he’ll never make it to Minsk - only maybe to Vitebsk before he leaves again. A _Leuchtpistole_flare brings colour to the greyed out sky.

He brushes his hand against Dernier’s side, whose at his RM-30 mortar post; the commando’s universal code for _cover me in a way that isn’t from bullets_. It includes _cover me as a wingman for dames_ as much as it does _cover me as a distraction while I sneak away to read __confidential__ messages our Captain has snuck through the Mail._

Dernier doesn’t spare him a glance, but he immediately heads to Bucky’s former position to run interference.

Bucky skids down and along until he finds an empty dug cave in the trench, carefully stepping over the body near it’s entrance. He heads to a corner and pulls out his notebook and Celtic Cross lighter; flicks on the orange flame to illuminate his knees and feet. He flicks his way to ‘Steve’s page’ in his notebook - and the lines of Gaelic over three pages.

Steve writes,

_I think a present for his uncailí_ _was in there, did Jill get hers? Jack and Jill’s last name was Saywer right, in that old wives tale? Anyway, Jack lost a bunch of the birthday presents he bought, which is terrible, since there’s no way to get more. It’s hit him real hard, and he’s not likely to recover from the loss any time soon. Hopefully you’re more lucky for your brother’s birthday._

_uncailí_ \- uncle. Uncle Sam. _Jack and Jill’s last name was Sawyer right, in that old wives tale?_ Lieutenant Sawyer.

Soil rains down on Bucky’s head from the dirt ceiling as a mortar must hit in the vicinity, but his feet don’t rock from the vibration.

A intel package for Uncle Sam, arranged by Lieutenant Sawyer, was lost in the post during the bad weather - which means it was shot down while airborne - and there’s no way to get more. The SSR is not likely to recover from the loss for a long time.

“Fuck.” Bucky mutters. He knew about Lieutenant Sawyer’s shipment - it was a big one - with what could have been war-changing information. And it’s gone. The SSR is not likely to recover from the loss for a long time, repeats solidly in his head.

“_Fuck._” He swears again with more feeling.

Steve’s signed off as_ King Doofus, in charge of all loose-nutters everywhere._

He holds up the letter up; because this isn’t V-Mail but Western Post - and so Steve’s had his own hands on it; and shines his lighter beneath it; counting for half a minute.

Slowly, like a mirage; the paper grain distorts as it heats, and shapes of an alphabet he recognizes darkens to gold.

He knew it - _you super-duper sneaky devil, Rodgers. Christ. Nice one, Steve-o, and nice one to the darling Miss __Carter for the __courtesy__ of teaching them that lovely lemon-juice trick._

He reads the rest quickly; and several parts spring up._ Namhaid_; enemy, _paella from the capital_; Madrid Spain, and_ near where we sighted our golden fair lady in our own Catholic miracle _\- Belgium. Followed by coordinates Bucky deduces likely to be the estimated blast site so he knows the numbers to look for. _Sceitheadh _is thrown in - their word for leak, as is an _dara scéim_. He quickly identifies that yes; this was Hydra andand it wasn’t just one shipment. Sawyer’s was the big one - but there’s been four. They’ve lost four in the last week.

One before it made shipment in Madrid, and three more - the big one over the skies of Belgium’s coast when it was nearly in the all clear of British Airspace. An SOE agent is also dead. Peggy’s gone to ground to find out how the hell Hydra are doing this. The German Intelligence Agency is also apparently corrupted from the inside.

“Jesus_ S _Christ,” Bucky mutters, “are any of these fucking agencies honest?”

What the hell is going on in London? And he thought this place was bad.

Steve’s written _When it’s done right, more can be accomplished from the inside than from the outside__. It’s got to be connected to your thing. Too __convenient__. _That’s what Bucky said, word for word. _Look for tethers on the communications lines. Look for __Aos Sí._

He’s heard that word before - from Sarah’s mouth in one of Sarah’s old Steve-Sick stories, read out or sung out while Bucky sat squished into the bottom bed-frame, trying to do his homework and ignoring how much Steve’s breath was rattling in his lungs as he dozed. _What was itwhat was itwhat_Steve’s written it down in his book. Of course he has. _Brilliant man, he is, has Bucky ever said that?_ Not to his face, probably. He should say it to Steve’s face, so he knows how bloody brilliant he is.

Aos Sí - Irish fae folk, living in the mounds across the Irish countryside. Often invisible, but capable of appearing as (usually beautiful) humans, the Aos Sí can cause all kinds of problems. This looks like this could have been Peggy’s advice from before she and Steve fought it - so translation - look for more Peggy’s, beautiful and hidden in plain sight. Eyes and spies everywhere.

_We might have a sceitheadh here too. I’m working on tightening the wrench. See what you can find. Be safe._

He pulls out the letter he was already replying to, using his knee and his flame to light as he writes, then stops. He’s gotten halfway through - vows instead to finish it later. He needs to sign off with something helpful - an urgent obligation within him needs to be conducive to being here like he was in his last - and he has nothing. He’s out his own head and in the real world more now, and even though his ma hasn’t managed to get back to him yet, he’s operating at a functional level.

It helps, to think outside of himself like that sometimes. He’s functional - so perform a function. Intel. Get what you promised.

. . .

“Gros problèmes.” (****Big problems****) he murmurs as he passes Dernier, and slips a torn off corner with the blast coordinates into his pocket. Bucky’s going back out on the line again - but Dernier has more time to snoop.

Bykov says he took a long time pissing.

“When you’ve got to go you’ve got to go.”

The man grunts and looks away - refusing to commune with him if not in Russian - which honestly, Bucky cannot live in twenty-four-seven right now.

“Piss faster next time, comrade.” Illya says, and tugs him down the trench and away from his friend and not-friend. “We need you here.”

. . .

. . .

Dernier does not disappoint. When Bucky gets back, two days gone with no sleep and probably on his way to a urinary infection from holding it so long, he hasn’t been able to snag anything close to resembling the numbers - _but you know what _\- don’t ever say that Dernier isn’t adaptable.

He goes through their usual of ‘did anyone see you?’ and the answer is no.

He stares at Steve’s telegram, and then at the sheet of paper Dernier’s just handed him; the two unrelated (?) things that welcomed him home. Then he looks at the stamp on the corner:

“Please. _Please_ tell me this isn’t from Karpov’s desk.”

Dernier crosses his arms and leans again the wooden beam. “I will not tell ‘ou then.”

“Oh my god.” Bucky utters, “You shithead.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep that night, because they have to spend the only two hours free of shellings waiting for the best moment to sneak back into Karpov’s tent to return it before he notices - but at least he’s got the start of something.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: N/A - FERRIED WITH SSR MAIL.

* * *

** **ВОЕННО-МОРСКОЙ ФЛОТ ОТДЕЛ СВЯЗИ КРАСНОЙ АРМИИ** **

* * *

(ЦЕНЗОР ШТАМП - ОЧИЩЕНО) 

K: JENNIFER BARNES, LILY BARNES OT: SGT JAMES BARNES 

4429 ELIZABETH STREET, BELL GREEN. N.Y АДРЕС: ****LOCATION REDACTED****

Дата: APRIL 10TH, 1944

* * *

_Hey Lils, hey Jen,_

_It’s kinda been a while, huh? Sorry about that_ _ <strike> I guess - no, I mean</strike> _ _. Seriously. Sorry. I think of you always, even though I don’t write as often as I should. I can picture us all sitting down together eatin’, talkin’ and enjoying ourselves as soon as this war is over and that won’t be long now….I hope. Don’t worry about writing to me because Ma does a very good job writing - and Becca writes Steve all the _ _ <strike>fucking damn</strike> _ _, yikes sorry - time too._

_Ma told me about your boyfriends - no. You’re not allowed - without pa here someone has to curb your dreams of romance, so I guess that’s me. I’ve told ma to take your records - that I’m really not sorry about._

_Take good care of ma for me and I will send you a souvenir from Italy, or France or hell, anywhere as soon as I get the chance. Give me a country and I’ll make up an excuse and get the squad to go. I’m a good liar. I could do it….I guess I have said enough for one day, so give my love to Ma, and Becca, and the _ _neighbors_ _; and cousins - and my not-love for your dates._

_Your loving brother always,_

_Bucky._

. . .

Steve in both his letters couldn’t stop himself from asking about the ever ‘distrustful’ Karpov - though it’s not by name of course. From the thinly veiled words, lemon juiced ink and code on the page he reckons Steve’s been learning more than a thing or two from Carter while he’s back there - and wonders how many times they’ve been caught making out yet. He sent his letter back with nothing afterall, if only to make sure some correspondence got back after the bombshells that Steve dropped, but told him he’s working on a scheme. A scheme he’ll put into action soon, he promises, when he’s got the right moment and attitude…and confidence.

The SSR (sort of) reported their breach in the meantime, so Karpov knows about it. In _that_ meantime though - Bucky has also been able to get_ tit for tat,_ working and_accomplishing_ from the inside rather than the outside - diplomatically. Philips would be so proud. They’ve had discussions, trying to flush the leak if that’s what it is, out - and it’s looking more and more likely that it is coming from the SSR, and not here. Every avenue they check on this end - is covered, every account is verified, every communication is secured. Unfortunately Bucky can hardly ask about the exchange of money he’s not supposed to know about - but he can ask about<strike></strike>

“Slovechno.”

“What about it?” Karpov asks.

“What was in the shipment?” Bucky asks straight off. Karpov considers him, and Bucky pushes, “_come on._ I know it was a shipment. Not a checkpoint.”

“Someone’s been speaking.” Karpov replies blandly, which - unemotionally worrying.

“No, someone - namely me, has been thinking.” Bucky covers convincingly, not for one second letting Illya go down for this._ Eyes have eyes. __The chakano chordance goes on forever._ ”It's a railway town by trade. The amount dead - the numbers don’t add up. The strategy doesn’t either. I know Hydra, I know how they play the game. And they have two games - and they tend to play them side-by-side at the same time. One is move in with covert assault, the other is throw all it’s damn artillery at the thing until they gets results. They did the first in London already - they did the second here. Pattern’s a pattern, Colonel.” This is complete bullshit, but Bucky can tell it’s working. “They went after something - and they got it. So, what did they get?”

Karpov says nothing.

“Us being here is supposed to be more than diplomatic relations Colonel, there’s such a thing as shared allocation of assets. How is anyone supposed to operate without the information. My Captain needs to know.”

Karpov hums. “And the breach”

“I’ll get you the intel for that in return.” Bucky promises, because fair - London HQ is also only half playing the game too.

“And how about a promise on fixing your own people’s _lapse in __security__._” It’s clear he is not impressed, and honestly, Bucky cannot blame him. Who the hell lets unsecured blueprints walk out of their secured based in a barely locked briefcase to work on from home - somewhere that clearly isn’t thinking about security anywhere near enough in this climate.

“Already done. “ Bucky says, and unveils the telegram that he knows Steve managed to entirely slip past Soviet command. Karpov blinks slowly, and picks it up from the table. He reads silently, then raises his eyes back to Bucky, concealing the surprise that Bucky knows is actually there. Illya whose just walked in the door does not look surprised - and that does _not_ surprise Bucky in the_ fucking least._ “My Captain secured it himself. It was already in his works before the breach, you can be sure it’s in place now. They’re locked down. No more lapses.”

Karpov says: “You are more than you look, Sergeant Barnes.”

And that, my good fellows, that is how he gets the Russian branch of the SSR to _not only_ admit to, but also hawk over the intel gained about Slovechno’s attack to the rest of the Allies.

_Win fucking win,_ he high-fives Dernier later.

“And everyone says Hydra tortured the charm out of me.” He says, taking a swig from his flask. Dernier snorts vodka out of his nose, coughing in shock, while Illya just plain snorts in bad humour.

“No” Dernier coughs, “no one says this.”

“Steve says it.”

“No, no ‘e does not.”

_Okay fine. _“He’s thinking it though.” Bucky says.

Dernier shakes his head, looking sad, “no Buck’ee, no e’ is not.”

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: UNRECIEVED.

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

_[CENSOR STAMP - _ ** _ **REDACTED** _ ** _] _

_TO_: SGT. JAMES BARNES _FROM:_ REBECCA BARNES

****LOCATION: REDACTED**** _SENDERS ADDRESS: _ 3421 45 HILLCREST ST. NEW JERSEY

_DATE: _21TH APRIL 1944

* * *

YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. FUCK YOUR CHOPS. GIVE ME MORE THAN THAT.

. . .

The meetings continue, mostly with Sobel and the Artem-something; and the rest of the time he’s out training. He rarely gets to see his beloved Dasha anymore - so Dernier ruins her training by sneaking her meat treats between meals for him instead.

Karpov appears here and there, and speaks to them; asking his and Dernier’s opinion, his perception of this and that - but nothing that is overly influential. His demeanour stays stony, and his eyes sharp; with a large grey slate-like presence about him. After a while - Bucky feels like he’s being tested._ Interesting._

On a bad day he is _mutinously_ rude to him, like big time. He’s super angry that day, has had bugs crawling up under his skin for the last two days after trying to write in his book again; he’s just come back from an thirty-six hour assignment, he’s been holding in pee for last nine of those hours and he’s so fucking tired - but he can’t sleep.

Dernier looks at him in alarm - but none of his hints or slashing arm movements behind Karpov’s back to _stop!_ make a dent. The Colonel himself doesn’t say a thing - just observes him steadily like a stone.

Bucky takes that and goes a step further - just to see if he can get him to react. He’d said he’d keep an eye out for Steve, and as he’s said; he keeps a flat level of distrust for everyone - and Karpov’s level-hardheadedness is just as suspicious as someone who fidgets or lets out explosions. Bucky is good in that he does not discriminate.

He’s not slimy - more…Bucky can’t find the word either. He gets a very low, but very controlled warning and dismissal.

Bucky doesn’t take it.

Karpov takes a step towards him - Illya appears from the black of _where the hell did you come from _and intervenes - subtly requesting his presence.

He leaves the tent - and Karpov turns to Dernier to discuss his approach instead. Bucky’s clenching his hands in and out, digging his nails into his skin. Illya walks with him round the corner - all the way to the other side of camp - then slams him into the brick.

“Do. Not. Do that. Again.” He spits out, flecks landing on Bucky’s face.

“Oh please.” Bucky scoffs, trying to leave - especially if Illya’s just created a ruse and pulled him out of _his_ chance to test the Colonel out. Illya shoves him back into the wall again with a thump, hands on Bucky’s collar - Bucky fights him; and Illya grabs his wrist and fingers, and with the other presses into a spot on his neck. Bucky’s body freezes up; his muscles locking as Illya traps him in the unknown maneuver. It’s moves he’s witnessed like this that tells Bucky he is not Army trained - but something else.

He hisses into his ear in biting Russian. “Do not challenge that man. Называйте его полковником или товарищем - и ничего другого не делайте. _Ничего__!_ Не пересекай человека.” (“**** Address him as Colonel or Comrade - and do nothing else. Nothing. Do not cross him****.”)

“Wh-y no” Bucky manages to wrench out of his locked body - heart rate ramping up even though it feels like the hold is designed to keep it calm and in control. This reaction is emotional this time, not physical.

“_Заткнись__! _(**_**Shut up!**_**) Do not cross him. Do you understand?”

Bucky bites his lip stubbornly. He grunts sharply as Illya twists. “Ye-Хорошо (**_**F**_****_**ine**_**.) Okay, Okay!" He agrees, "_Get__Сходить__ offme!_”

Illya releases him. He looks for a moment longer as Bucky shoves himself away, rubbing harshly at the bruised skin. “Sleep tonight.” Illya says, “we leave in afternoon - Yuri is with us.”

Bucky glares at him, turning to leave.

“_Pindostan._” Illya declares again - and when Bucky returns his gaze his look is steady in a way that is almost scary. He adds, very clearly. “We did not have this conversation.”

The man walks away, leaving Bucky with that.

. . .

Between them they often joked that Steve got angry enough for the both of them, but Bucky knew what an actual blessing that was - Steve felt and showed his anger and despair deeply counters it with so much love for things as well. He can go to those extremes because he knows how to balance them - how to love with them - and Bucky could always pull him back to something steady if he needed to. Just as Steve had (mostly) always had Bucky there to remind him that he was more than what people thought he was, Bucky had always had Steve there to make sure he was never really alone.

Where Steve was the high-flying bird; in flight but never an Icarus - Bucky was the deep roots. But tonight his limbs feel cut off. Chopped away. He feels like a pawn.

He wants to go outside and scream into the night sky and listen to it echo. He wants to take his knives and run them through a hundred men. He wants to kill the man and everyone associated, _even a little bit_, to those who pumped those damn cocktails into him to make him feel this badly; this _strongly_ all the time.

He wants to be steady...but mostly, most of all…

He wants to be happy again. He wants so desperately to be happy like he used to be. Sometimes he can imagine he can get there, other times not…but they can pass as quickly or as constant as the wind does.

. . .

He wonders what the Archangel Michael would think of him now. Where would he lie on the scales of justice?

. . .

The Book of illustrations with Catholic riddles and prayers and accounts woven into pages as intricate as his mother’s small knitting needles. The book his friend treasured for three months and was loathe to return to Sunday Mass when his tenure with it came to an end. It was titled The _Alphabet of the Alte_r and was miles above the typical _Old Testament Picture Book_ that always lay inside their desks with their bibles during their Scripture Study classes.

Whenever he thinks about the pictures of the Faith he was supposedly raised in he always goes to Steve’s raffle-won book. That damn book. He doesn’t know why, but he does. 

Maybe it’s because in that first year Steve used to read it so much for him, _to him_; trying to make the accounts sink into Bucky’s head the way they were supposed to; so he stopped misunderstanding the point. He’s pretty sure at some point Steve used to pray for his soul since he didn’t do it himself, young and learning and worried for his new friend’s standing with God, until he gave up and set his own boundaries in his faith.

_Think about Uriel. Get yourself under control. Remember that conversation even if you won’t speak of it._

_. . ._

DATE RECIEVED: 15TH OF APRIL 1944 - FERRIED BY SSR MAIL - DELAYED

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - REDACTED] _

_TO_: SGT. JAMES BARNES _FROM:_ WINIFRED BARNES

189TH COM-NDO. F.A. B.N 4429 ELIZABETH STREET, BELL GREEN. N.Y

[FORWARDED TO **BLACK**] 

_DATE: 08_TH APRIL 1944

* * *

_Bucky, _

_A weird question, but you’re a weird fella’ with a weird mother, so who am I to judge? I had to have a think, but I believe I remember some of it; I never had no book or anything about it; just Aunt Clarice’s words. Your nana has enough fuckin’ baloney in her belly to be calling me it to my face, ha!_

_First things first: you start by writing them down. Your dreams I mean. And you need to be aware that you’re dreaming too. Recognize the signs, the patterns. There’s normally a pattern to them. One way to check if your dreaming; the thing I used to do, is count your fingers. You always have more or less fingers in dreams. I checked in a book too and I’m right, aren’t you proud of me, it’s a real thing; not just a Winnie Barnes thing. Second way is before you go to sleep you think of specific things right before, and you can influence what comes next. Or talk to yourself - keep repeating ‘I will know I am dreaming’ before you go - I used to annoy your pa with that one. Block out any light, get as comfy as you can. Does that answer your question, does that help your ‘friend’ who probably isn’t actually the one asking? You don’t fool me, you little hooligan._

_You were an excellent conductor. Oh, so we’re going for the beard look are we? You really are turning into your father. Captain America? Captain America was in the newspaper the other week - spotted in Italy. Are you telling me _ _ that _ _ is Steve Rodgers? _ _ The Steve Rodgers _ _ from _ _ Brooklyn _ _; the same Steve Rodgers who couldn’t reach the glasses on the top shelf in our kitchen aged eighteen? Now that, young man, that is the fucking baloney. Bullshit. Why do thy lie to thee, my son, doth thee think I be an idiot?_

_And no, don’t you be sending all that money over here. I told you that to be truthful, not to worry you. You need to save it, love, for when you come home. Think of school. It’s not that bad, and I don’t need charity even though I love ya for it. Who am I kidding? You’re going to do it anyway; you’re as bad as that friend of yours when you get an idea in your head. Well if you’re going to send it all to me then _ _ I’m _ _going to save it for you; buried in my underwear. Fuck the banks._

_Becca and I talked a little last month when she came over the day the messengers came, but - I tried but I don’ t think your eldest sister is ready for that talk or any kind of talk at the moment. I know you but I also know her, and crowding her about it is only going to make it worse. But nice try in trying to get the gang back together, darling._

_Now would you please answer my questions? How are you? Are you alright? Don’t think I didn’t notice you completely avoid the whole bottom half of my letter. Talk to me. You don’t seem yourself. Answer me or I’ll set your sisters on you._

_Love you too,_

_Your Ma._

* * *

Bucky snorts. “Whoever said blackmail was an inappropriate parenting technique, huh ma?” He murmurs to himself.

“Hmm?” Dernier asks from opposite him.

“Ma mère menace de mettre mes sœurs sur moi si je ne me rase pas la barbe.” He explains. “ Ce n’est pas la première fois qu’elle utilise le chantage pour contourner ses enfants.” (“****My mother is threatening to set my sisters on me if I don't shave my beard.****” He explains, lying a little. “****It’s not the first time she’s used blackmail to get around her children.****”)

“Ah,” Dernier replies chuckling. “Ma mère nous soudoyait avec de la nourriture.” (“****My mother used to bribe us with food.****”)

Bucky nods, “Une autre méthode éprouvée et fiable de la parentalité. J’approuve. Tu crois que Fleur est le même genre de mère pour Amélie ? Pensez-vous que vous serez?” (“****Another tried and trusted method of parenting. I approve. Reckon Fleur is the same kind of mother to ********Amélie********? Reckon you will be?****”) He asks, tucking the letter away.

Dernier contemplates the question. “non... Je pense qu’elle est stricte, mais ludique - nous n’avons pas eu beaucoup de chance de parler de la façon dont nous élèverions notre enfant. Et moi.…(“ N****o...I feel she may be strict, but playful - we did not get much chance to talk about how we would raise our child. And me..****”) He switches to English. “I do not know what kind of father I would be...I won't know until I am one.”

“You _are _a father Jacques.”

He waves a hand, “’ou know what I mean. Until I am there, I dowill not know.” He considers a moment further. “She will probably walk all over me, actually. An’d I will feel ‘o coupableum, guilty for being away that I will let her.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” Bucky says immediately, nudging him across the space with his boot.

Dernier shoves the boot off, but he’s smiling. “Get ‘our dirty boots off my bed, _sport_.”

“Ugh” Bucky groans, rocking his head back in a dramatic flail. Dernier’s been calling him ‘sport’ ever since he saw Bucky pull a face when Fletch did it. “_Stop._ It’s even worse when you do it.”

“ ‘ou said only old Americans call ‘people ‘sport’.”

“_You_ \- are not old Jacques. If Fletcher is too young to call me that - then you definitely are.”

“Put’s a dampener on my next masterpiece then.” He says. Bucky is automatically suspicious as Illya enters the tent; wind billowing against the sides, ducking under the doorway. 

“Why?” Bucky asks Jacques, eyeing Illya uncertainly, wondering where they're going to lie today. Yesterday afternoon was not exactly comfortable - both of them grating despite Illya refusal to acknowledge what happened. Bucky's mood had also not improved in the slightest - though he'd forced himself into sullen silence instead of steamed shouting.

“It was going to say, _ahem_.” Dernier clears his throat, and Bucky can already tell he’s about to put on a American accent. He should be scared. “Atta’ boy, sport!’” Bucky flops down onto his back in resignation as Dernier returns to his usual accent. “And ‘Give us e’ smile’ on the other’”

“No.” Bucky tells him.

“Yes.”

“Put ‘give us a smoulder’, instead of smile on it and I’ll accept.” He decides, rallying. “To keep up my on-screen reputation.”

“You’re onscreen reputation is terrible” Illya says, accent harsh on the words.

“Just like you.” Bucky finishes with him, and then Illya laughs which gives him the answer. _Okay then. _Better terms on his end - Bucky can deal with pretending it never happened too now the rage has cooled with a dreamless sleep. He would also not like to admit to how thoroughly, and easily, Illya had him trapped with just a press of this thumb.

“Enemy lines again? Behind?” Bucky asks, considering that’s a good guess. Illya clears his throat, which means yes. “You with me? Or Nina, or Sergei, or Yuri?” Illya motions to himself. “Well, alrighty then.” He says, as that’s what he prefers when they're not fuming at each other or Illya's not busy calling him a foul capitalist. He holds out a hand for Illya to pull him up. He announces, in Russian: “Teamwork makes the dream work, remember.”

Illya snorts - “Your accent is terrible.” He says in English, then awkwardly adds, “but yes, teamwork - makes thedream work.”

Jacques presses his lips together to keep from cracking up. Bucky has been supplying Illya with his own sayings and telling him they come from famous American scholars for weeks. The man has not figured it out yet.

He slings his _Springfield_ and his fellow’s_ Moisin_ over his shoulder; and Illya grabs his own binoculars, scope and measurement chart. “Can we find something for Dernier to blow up so he doesn’t feel left out?”

Illya turns to his companion. “You like fire, yes?”

“Love it.” Dernier says with a not-quite straight face.

Illya nods. “We will find some fire for you to bring.”

“Merveilleux!” (“Wonderful!”)

_. . ._

He lays down at night; his eighth night in a row. He waits until Dernier is breathing softly and evenly, turned on his side on the concrete in the empty apartment they're hiding in - and Illya and Yuri are lost to the land of sleep. He sleeps with his Uskauka hat on his head, fur warming his forehead.

“I will know I’m dreaming. I will know I’m dreaming.” He quietly utters in a whisper, and continues uttering it until he can’t remember stopping. He wakes two hours later. It didn’t work.

He rolls over, pulls out his math book from under his pillow, turns to a new page from the back to fool anyone if they look. He writes; ‘dancing hall, booze, spilled red wine turn to blood; like Moses, flashing light; spectacles - trolley - table - vomit - routing round in my guts for something’ under the day’s date. He writes the number one and circles it - the note for the first dream of the night. He forces himself back on his back - breathes once, twice - closes his eyes._ You will go back to sleep_, he tells himself, _you will not stay up all night. Force yourself back to sleep._

Try again.

“I will know I’m dreaming. I will know I’m dreaming.” He whispers again.

. . .

“D.” He calls right before he takes off, and very clearly says, finger pointed as the Frenchman turns to him - “No. More. Tank extravaganza’s.”

“Stop taking all ‘he fun out of my fun, _sport._”

“Ugh, I take it back. Blow up as many tanks as you want. Don’t wreck your face on any more rotaries!”

“Don’t fall into any more ditches!” Dernier returns just as quick.

Bucky throws a sopping wet sock him. “One time. I fall one time and you never let me live it down!”

. . .

Through his scope he sees:

“Oh Jesus. Please tell me you didn’t give D a flame thrower.”

For the fact that he very rarely wears a smirk on his face, Illya looks far too pleased with himself. 

“I’m not taking responsibility for this. I’m telling you that right fucking now.”

. . .

“Do you ever sleep?” Illya asks him gruffly on one of the last days , as a parallel to when Bucky asked if he ever ate. He still has not seen much evidence, just as Illya likely has not seen much evidence of him sleeping.

“Not really.” Bucky answers, firing again. A man goes down to a shot to the chest. “If you sleep you miss too much.”

“Thatis, shitty excuse.” Illya notes immediately. “Left, 93 degrees.” He cuts in to spot, and Bucky twists his rifle, curving round the barrel. “Keep low.” Illya pushes down minutely on his back, as he always does, and continues their conversation even in the middle of the war-zone. Nothing much fazes this man - it’s why the forced shove and hissed warning was so surprising. “Is shit. Like your excuse for not shooting the prisoner Nina wanted to kill.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky answers, and Illya snorts and leaves him to it.

“Shift your position.” He orders, and maneuvers Bucky with his hands over his hips, turning, whilst barely moving himself - hidden deep on their perch so he’s never out of cover.

“You found that other sniper yet?”

“Ohso you arepaying attention.” Illya baits, then says, “when you are done with them - he’s behind the letter R of that sign-front. They have probably spotted you now.”

Bullets spike, _one, two,_ quick reload, _three_ into the brick above them; getting lower; dust rains down on them.

Illya sighs, twisting his body so he is flatter to the ground, Bucky follows him at the same speed. “No probably. He has spotted you. Kill him before he shoots you in the head, _pindostan_, or I will shoot you for him.”

“Yeah right, you flop-doodle.” Bucky iterates next him him - focuses his point of scope. He loads one-fifty grain bullets; heavier and faster to break through the wood and sign wall. This is not a long-range shot. Piece of cake. He squints - and his first bullet spears through the circular hole the German sniper has cut through for a muzzle hole - the second just above it so it hits the gunner.

Illya gives him a dull look, lowering his binoculars. “Did you fire into and through the muzzle of the Томми’s rifle?”

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, “never said I wasn’t a show off.”

Illya huffs, notes: “63, up East,” then: “what is a flop-doodle?”

“I’ll tell you when you tell me what Passossee mayee yaitsa,” he pronounces phonetically, ”means. What am I looking for again so I don’t need you? And give me some more vodka.”

Someone starts firing at their position, and they duck down as it’s just a general wave of a machine gunfire; not a targeted assault. “Fucks’ sake.” Bucky curses, and a Red Army man goes down to the forward right position of them. He’s still alive.

Illya sighs another time, and says “Прикройте меня” It’s a sentence Bucky already knows, it means _cover me_. He breaks from their position; running out and grabbing the solider. He starts dragging him back to behind their perch. Bucky fires at every single person who looks like they are coming close to him.

“You’re a shit.” Illya says to him, just because; plugging the hole in the guy’s leg and groin.

“You’re_ the_ shit.” Bucky replies back without preamble.

. . .

_He counts his fingers, laying his hands out in front of him. The Hydra guard in front of him pulls off his hood - he has no face, smooth as an eggshell. Clawed nails tickle as they wind their way around his neck, _ _spiking_ _ tendrils of blood, pulling it back. The purple crows fly. This isn’t real. The Red Skull waits above him._

_“You are one of us now. You are part of us.”_

_Bucky _ _sneers_ _ at him. “Go fuck yourself.”_

_He hates this man, but he doesn’t fear him as a person - just what he represents. The Red Skull doesn’t scare him. The light doesn’t glint off his spectacles with a grimy green and grey _ _atmosphere_ _. “My friend is going to kill you. You’re going to die - I’m going to make sure it hurts.”_

_The Red Skull laughs at him, and he’s not looking at the man, but at a _ _propaganda_ _ poster of him, stood on a street. Okay yes, so if he can justThe poster moves, and the red face sneers - hands dart out, the poster comes alive and he sucks Bucky into the paper. Shells dropthen silence. He looks up and see’s only darkness, can smell only his own vomit and urine. His pants itch from the stain. He’s back in his cell - no no no no._

_He stays in his cell the whole night, trapped. _

He wakes as the breakfast bell rings. Fuck. He gets out his notebook.

. . .

(It’s probably good none of the guys can see him talking himself to sleep - this break from most of them continues to be a good thing. It gives him a chance to get the worst of his shit together without anyone judging him.)

. . .

Steve writes,

_What arm? OH YES. That arm._

_This overconfident asshole got shot in the arm again. The same arm. On Friday the 13_ _th__. If that isn’t a bad omen I don’t know what is, Christ Almighty to all hallelujahs__. Oops. I’m fine. _

“You still have that flamethrower, right?” Bucky asks abruptly, slamming down the small sheet. “I need to borrow it.”

“Not on moi, I hope.” Dernier replies easily.

“Do not.” Sergei cuts in roughly. “Я не доверяю американец с ROKS-3.” (****I do not trust the American with ROKS-3****.)

“Ты доверяла ему!” (****You trusted him!****)

“**_**Он**_**, не крадет моих собак, не спрашивая.” (_**He**, doesn’t steal my dogs without asking_.)

“Dasha!” Bucky calls, “heel.”

She comes to his fucking English - Sergei opens his mouth; but Bucky’s already taken off with her.

. . .

DATE RECIEVED: N/A - FERRIED WITH SSR MAIL.

* * *

** **ВОЕННО-МОРСКОЙ ФЛОТ ОТДЕЛ СВЯЗИ КРАСНОЙ АРМИИ** **

* * *

(ЦЕНЗОР ШТАМП - ОЧИЩЕНО) 

K: SGT. TIMOTHY DUGAN OT: SGT JAMES BARNES 

189TH COM-NDO F.A.B.N, P/O. LONDON АДРЕС: ****LOCATION REDACTED****

Дата: APRIL 27TH ,1944

* * *

YOU’RE A SHITTY BABYSITTER. YOU HAD ONE JOB.

* * *

_. . ._

_Steve’s also written, _ _Whatever you’re planning - please think properly about it first, Christ. I’m not the only overconfident asshole in this duo. Don’t risk yourself over something stupid. I mean it._

_Too little too late Mush, a whole week infact. I got warned twice over, and got nothing, thrice over._

He needs to get something else for the SSR. He needs to. He needs to be useful. So long as he’s useful they won’t think about getting rid of him or sending him away.

He thinks back to that conversation he heard - the beginning, and end with the money in the middle - and how he’s much better at Russian now. He tries to remember even just a few words - and it comes right back. Word for word all the way through like he doesn’t have to try.

In a way he hates that he can apparently remember nearly each cadence of this stupid conversation even when he didn’t understand it, but not remember what happened in that room of broken furniture. He can’t remember why smiley faces made of peas kept appearing in his mash or on his plate, but he remembers how there was a hint of green in the man he believes to be Gusev’s brown eyes even from eight meters away. How is it fair that he can remember these things - when he sometimes can’t remember which side Andrew’s single dimple used to be on.

_Stop. Don’t think about it. Focus. Be useful._

He goes through it in his head, and writes down a rough transcript to bring back to his best friend.

_Our intel is assured. Men speak to beautiful women - and who is more beautiful than a ballerina. We have several in Minsk, and more in Moscow's company. _

_The arrangement for the flow of information between them has been well-established for years. It is an asset the agency is keen to explore further - younger._

_Now Gusev, let us not speak of the future so soon. The present is our priority._

_Of course, comrade._

A few sentences over…

_There is a 22 hour window once you are in the territory. _

_It is important the dogs do not catch wind of the target. _

_They will not comrade. I have my best men on this. Now, as for the cost..._

Then the money.

_And the other matter discussed on our last meeting?_

_Be assured Gusev. Kalashnik is assessing the quarry and surveillance is ongoing as we speak. You will have a report soon. The Raven Objective has not been forgotten._

At the end - Bucky thinks there was:

_Out of curiosity colonel - do we have a name for our dancing girls yet? _

_Yes. The Black Widow Initiative._

_And the raven - if it is to go ahead?_

_It remains the Raven Objective for now...though, _the man had laughed, Bucky remembers,_ I believe our other comrade may have another in the works. He is for more optimistic of the path forward. _

_And what is that?_

_The Winter Solider Project, he calls it. _ _The West and the German’s may have left us behind in the dust in the realms of technological science and…Super-soldiers, but we are more than just our winter. And there is no one in the world who can best us in this realm. _

_We will catch up. Who doesn’t love a fusion?_

Andrew’s dimple was on the left side, wasn’t it? Yes. No. Or was it on the right?

_. . ._

Steve’s signed off his last letter with_, I’ll see you soon._

_You betcha pal, _Bucky thinks, excited already_, you betcha. I’m nearly back not-home with you._

_. . ._

“Bet you are glad to be leaving us.” Illya comments as they arrive at the airfield, clapping his hands together and clearing off the rest of the chalk clinging to them by wiping them on his trousers. It doesn’t work - so he wipes them on Bucky’s jacket. Bucky has been putting up with this, and the asshole for a month. He’s been Illya’s walking towel so often he barely even notices it now.

“I’m glad to be leaving you that’s for sure.” Bucky says, waving to Jacques who is already further down the runway. “Fuckin’ nightmare you are.”

“Had to meto be - to put up with American scum like you.”

“Tosser.”

“Pindostan”

“Fragrant man swine.”

“Негодяй” (“****Scoundrel****”)

“Shabbaroon.”

Illya breaks off: “Я не знаю, что это значит.” (“****I don’t know what that one means.****”)

“Shame.” Bucky fires back in English once he processes, considering he doesn’t actually have an explanation for that particular word anyway. Just - shabbaroon, you know.

Illya pauses for less than a second, then fires back with the American insults he_ does _know that Bucky taught him. “White livered weakling.”

Bucky grins at him, calls him a: “Skinflint”, then a “Ninnyhammer” in Russian.

“You’re a Death’s Head Upon a Mop-stick.” He finishes with, and Bucky blurts out a laugh.

“Good one you insufferable know-it-all.” He says, shoving him on the arm. “I taught you too well.”

“I think we can both say I taught the more important lessons in this relationship.”

“I am shocked that you don’t think my terrible jokes are important learning for you.” Bucky says as they walk, then stops and sling’s the man’s _Mosin Nagant_ off his shoulder. As his last day it was his turn to carry both their rifles to show his ‘unending thanks to best motherfucking spotter in the East’. Dernier is speaking to the pilot, who’s the same pilot who flew them over France, and then from Italy to London.

“An unfortunate side-effect of our lessons.” Illya takes the gun and hands him a steel flask. Bucky shakes it and it sloshes. No need to question what’s in it after all this time.

“One for the road?” He queries as Illya nods, so he tips his head back and swallows two full gulps of Russian vodka. It burns as it goes down his throat; he only pulls a small face because he’s a strong asshole and can handle it now. He licks his lips after with an small ‘gah’ as Illya does the same; finishing it off.

“Remember what I taught you.” Illya orders.

“Never shoot unless you have a good quarter bottle of vodka in your stomach.” Bucky recites obediently.

“Good. And not the shit you _Pindostan’s_ drink. I mean real pure,” Illya slaps his own chest to emphasize, “_Russian _vodka. Nothing else.”

“I hear you loud and clear.” Bucky promises, “only the best for my sniping.” Illya shoves him towards the plane, hard. “Don’t get shot in the head!” Bucky calls over his shoulder.

“Don’t getblown up or disembowelled.” The man shouts back from behind.

Bucky laughs into the air, “A breath of fresh air and positivism as always, Illya.” He pauses, stopping. “Illya!” He calls suddenly, remembering; and makes the man turn back round. “Fuck, hang on. У меня есть кое-что для тебя.” (“****I have something for you.****”)

The man raises an eyebrow, silent, as Bucky fishes through his pockets. “Ahh! Here. прежде чем я забыл (****Before I forget.****)” He hands him a Zippo lighter - orders; “turn it over.”

Illya does, already interested - he’s seen the collection Bucky and Dernier have piled together in the second week; using Yuri to translate as they traded them among the Russian soldiers in the camp for the fun of it. On the lid Bucky’s carved a rifle on each opposite corner - with I K scratched in thick letters at the centre. On the body, there’s two stars on the top right and bottom-left corner - and the main bit - the important bit at an angle, in Sergei -translated Russian says:

‘THOE I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH I FEAR NO EVIL, FOR I AM THE MEANEST MOTHERFUCKER IN THE VALLEY.’

“That’s my most refined one yet - be honoured.” Bucky tells him. “To say thanks. For being a nightmare.”

He’s never seen Illya grin so much, smiling like a shark. It’s as terrifying as Bucky predicted. The man fishes into his pockets and pulls out a second flask, this one full to the brim of vodka. He throws it at Bucky over the small space between then; who catches it. It has a star engraved at the centre. “Pure, Russian Vodka - for your shooting.” He says, then holds out a hand for a handshake.

Bucky waggles his eyebrows at him. “Careful.” Bucky motions over his head to plane. “The Capitalists say I’m in cahoots with the Communists next, watch out.”

Illya stiffly stifles a snort as Bucky obediently shakes his hand. Illya clasps his wrist with the other, only for second. Bucky freezes, about to pull back as Illya distracts with him an what looks to be serious announcement. He pulls Bucky closer, leaning in, like he’s about to tell him a secret.

_Something fishy _Dugan said.

“You have a handshake like a wilted petunia.”

Bucky scoffs loudly, and shoves him away. “You’re quoting fuckin’ Roosevelt at me now, you motherfucker. Now you’re just showing off.” Illya pulls away and starts back as Karpov appears at the airfield behind him; looking at Bucky the same way he always looks at Bucky. Not slimy, like Steve said, but something else. “Come to London whenever if you can.” Bucky says at last, “you’d be welcome.”

Illya cants his head up as a second goodbye, and turns to automatically nod “Comrade” at Karpov, as if feeling the man’s eyes on the back of his head from behind. He retreats.

“Sergeant.” Karpov greets. Two men and a trolley of wooden boxes follow him. “I have some intel to see you off with. For you to return to your Captain, I’m sure he will find it quite illuminating.”

Bucky barely restrains raising an eyebrow, listening with one ear to the conversation in the other language between the two Privates. That’s…interesting; surprising. “I wasn’t aware any more intel had been recovered, Полковник.”

Karpov subtly shifts, “I find information is best considered when revealed at the….correct point in time.”

_More like when __you __deem it a correct time_, Bucky translates. Now that makes him wonder how long they’ve actually had this information for before they deemed _now_ the correct point in time. Bucky and Dernier have been here a month, training yes; but also acting under the SSR’s jurisdiction with ‘supposed’ access to all the intel available on Hydra - and there’s been no notation whatsoever that anything else has been discovered. How long have they had this then - two whole crates full - a day, a week, three weeks; while Steve and the rest of the commandos were still here? _You gotta wonder._

Bucky schools his face. “I see. I take it I have clearance to look through it on the plane to London?” He’s planning to either way, whether he has clearance or not. Worse comes to worse - he’ll have Jacques pick the lock.

“Of course.” Karpov nods, considering him.Then he adds: “You have been learning our language I see.”

Belatedly Bucky realizes he previously addressed the Colonel by his title in Russian out of habit, as that’s what he’s been doing for the others for most of the last month - melding English and Russian in his sentences to learn. “I’ve picked up some over the time I’ve been here.” He bluffs, dumbing it down. “Just a little. It’s more complicated than French. But yes.”

“That is good.” Karpov says, “useful - for when you and your Captain return here.”

“Exactly.” Bucky responds.

Karpov considers him for another second, stony and sharp-eyed as always. He nods. “I wish you a safe flight, Sergeant. May we meet again.”

“Yes, Полковник.”

As he turns in response to Bucky’s purposeful-this-time translation of his title, Bucky swears for a moment, just for a moment - that he smirks.

_. . ._

He sleeps on the plane, notebook ready. “I will know I’m dreaming. I will know I’m dreaming. Recognize the patterns. I will know I’m dreaming….

_. . ._

_He’s back wading through the water again, having the same conversation. Bucky squishes the silky sand between his toes, inhaling mother nature into himself._

_“I’d bring my mother.” Dugan continues, as kids laugh behind them on the beach, playing on the dry sand. This time Bucky does turn back to see - and yes, they have no faces. Smooth as eggshells, as blank as river stones. Okay. “---if only to cook for us when we get too lazy. And Frenchie’s wife of course, and his _ _daughter_ _. We gotta’ meet little Amelie. Jones would have his sweetheart--” Dugan goes on, “Morita _ _whatever_ _ bird catches his fancy that week. Monty…who the hell knows with him.”_

_“Could be anyone, any thing.” Bucky adds in, looking down and counting his fingers. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven - fourteen, he has fourteen fingers. Okay. Got it. _

_He comes back to the conversation. _

_“would you bring anyone else, ‘cept your sisters?”_

_He answers the same way he did before. “I can bring more than just them?”_

_‘I will know I’m dreaming,’ he repeats to himself inside. ‘Thy will know thee is dreaming. Eggshells, fingers: dream. I will know I’m dreaming.’_

_The water is still at his knees; and the sun is warm on his face. Dugan talks, Bucky answers._

_“You’re such a fuckin’ traitor.” Dugan _ _finishes_ _ with like before._

_Bucky smiles softly. “It’s not just my sisters I’m protective of.” He says this time as he searches the water._

_“What? You’re over-protective of the _ _barbecue_ _ smokin’ girls? Only cause you want them for yourself.”_

_Bucky laughs lightly, “no, no; not like that. Not…not anymore at least. In the past maybe. They’re just my friends - and _ _blitzed_ _ parties bond you like no other.”_

_“Here here to that.”_

_“Like you said, not all family is blood.”_

_But some is. He spots the trio spinning and bopping noses in the water when the toddler shrieks in laughter at the touch of sea-water. ‘I will know I’m dreaming, I do know I’m dreaming.’ She’s still spinning and teasing, both hands holding the toddlers little thighs steady as the man tosses the ball up before catching it in the distraction. As she comes up for a fourth time, spinning, Bucky doesn’t make eye contact with her over the water. Instead the bearded man’s lock into his, and the guy drops the ball, not trying to catch it. He doesn’t smile at him across the water - but he does move._

_Something grabs Bucky’s ankle since he _ _chooses_ _ not to take the wrong step; and it drags him beneath to the depths. Forty feet, not four; and he closes his eyes as the sand suctions up his hips far far below. ‘I will know I’m dreaming, I do know I’m dreaming; my dream, my dream - mine!_

_Something else grabs him from above but below the water line; first his floaty arm, then under his armpits - then both sides of his chest. Fourteen fingers that don’t belong to him lace themselves together - latching on over his spine. The swish of the water changes upwards with a powerful kick off the sand swallowing him - and aa-ah-aa-ahh! He feels like he’s being torn in two - ow ow ow ow - then it’s all water. Fish and seaweed brush against his bare legs as he rises - air bubbling out of his mouth. Right as he runs out of air the warm sun hits him, and he gasps; his body flush against someone else’s. He coughs, spluttering - soaking wet. The brush of a _ _familiar_ _ beard tickles the back of his neck, and then a hand is slamming over his spine to clear the water. It does, and he gasps over the bare shoulder. He did it._

_A big hand, bear-like; paw-like threads it’s way through his hair like when he was a child._

_“Easy, easy.” Comes from right next to his ear, a low deep rumble. “I’ve got you. They’re not taking you today. You’re staying with me, sonny. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, pa. I understand.” He breathes. “I miss you.”_

_“Well don’t,” his father says mildly with soft _ _amusement_ _. “You don’t need to miss me. I’m still with you, always. Right here.” He presses over Bucky’s back, right where his thudding heart is starting to calm. _

_My dream. My control. My father._

_“I’m sorry I didn’t come before, lad, but I’m here now. You’re stayin’ with me.”_

_Bucky finds his feet, standing on the water like Jesus. He hugs as tight as he ever has._

_“Thank you.” He whispers into his pa._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - we had a software crash on this end and I lost half the chapter literally RIGHT as I was about to post it 2 weeks ago - and of course - as I was rewriting mid cry - I went overboard and then just kept drowning myself in words. This was followed by a Christmas coma of epic proportions that I only just managed to climb out of, ha! Hope you enjoyed it and it gave all of you your Bucky fix you've been waiting for! Let us know how you feel at some of the not so clear bombs being dropped. And hoorah! Bucky has finally got himself together enough to finally right his sisters back! It turns out - he's also pretty damn suave when it comes to espionage... don't you think? Happy Holidays!
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> KARABINER: The Karabiner 98 kurz, is a bolt-action rifle; the standard service rifle by the German Wehrmacht.  
MOISIN NAGANT: The 3-line rifle M1891, colloquially known in the West as Mosin–Nagant and in Russia as Mosin's rifle, is a five-shot, bolt-action, internal magazine–fed, military rifle used by the armed forces of the Russian Empire, the Soviet Union and various other nations since the late 19th century.  
KRANOARMIICH : "Red Army man"  
PINDOSTAN: Pindostan as a variant, dismissive and later called as a derogatory term for the United States, first used in reference to US military servicemen. Illya, in a way that probably isn't funny, uses it as a term of endearment in the end.  
DURACELL - American Battery Owned company, founded in the 1920s.  
PANZERSCHRECK- German Anti-Tank Grenade launcher  
USKAUKA HAT: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f6/98/de/f698deb2322b084cb7db7df6fdd2b6a9.jpg  
AN DARA SCEIM - Gaelic for 2nd scheme or ulterior motive. A parti pris, if you will.  
AOS Sí - Irish fae folk, living in the mounds across the Irish countryside. Often invisible, but capable of appearing as (usually beautiful) humans, the Aos Sí can cause all kinds of problems when you mess with their homes.  
SARU - Gaelic for Breach.  
NAIMHAD - Gaelic for Enemy
> 
> REAL PEOPLE:  
\- Simo Hayha - A Finnish sniper from WW2 who to this day is still classed as THE BEST sniper in the world, with over five hundred counted kills, and the majority of them done from the mountains without a scope.  
\- Nina Pavlovna Petrova, nicknamed “Mama Nina” could well have been the oldest Russian female snipers in World War II. She was born in 1893 and was already 48 when she joined the war. After joining sniper school, Nina was posted to the 21st guards rifle division and saw active sniper duty. Petrova was credited with killing 122 enemy soldiers and although she survived the war she died in a tragic car accident just seven days after the war had ended. She was 53.
> 
> If you are interested - the history of female snipers in the Russian Army is very interesting: https://www.wonderslist.com/deadliest-russian-female-snipers-world-war-ii/
> 
> SLANG:  
BUPKIS: 1940s slang for "nothing; when someone doesn’t receive anything for their efforts."  
COCK-EYED - 1940s slang for "crazy, impossible, stupid."  
LETTUCE - American slang for cash money.


	33. PART 23 (a.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When was your first kiss?” Peggy asks him.
> 
> A surprised smiles blurts from his lips at the ceiling, “that was not a question I was expecting from you.” He comments, and he feels her shrug into his shoulder.
> 
> “Not Private Lorraine, I should hope.”
> 
> “Not jealous, I should hope.” He counters slyly....."I was twenty. It was nice, a bit sloppy,” he laughs, “- but yeah, she was my first one, I think.”
> 
> “You think?”
> 
> “I think.”
> 
> “You’re not sure?”
> 
> Steve shrugs, “I said I was drinking, didn’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In preview - I thought I'd throw in a super-duper quote I found this week - a quote I am now deciding is a disclaimer against any complaint about all the swearing that has ended up in this wordcount - because I just think it's great ;)
> 
> "BY THE FIRST WORLD WAR, SOLIDERS SWORE SO MUCH THAT THE WORD 'FUCKING' CAME TO FUNCTION AS NO MORE THAN 'A WARNING THAT A NOUN IS COMING.'" - Guardian Review of, Holy Sh*t: A Brief History of Swearing by Melissa Mohr.

> ** _ **THE MINISTRY OF INFORMATION PRESENTS…** _ **
> 
> ** _In this issue _ _“FORWARD COMMANDO!”_ _ featuring Captain America!_ **
> 
> _[PHOTOGRAPH OF EUROPEAN MAP - A SPREADING AND RECEEDING WAVE OF NAZI TERRIOTRY]_
> 
> _With the lessons of Europe as well as Asia the whole world is learning how to combat the assaults of Axis strategy - having revolutionized to meet these lightening drives. The new tactics of the Red Army - whirlwind attacks against the enemy carefully synchronized with violent guerrilla onslaughts behind his lines - have proven divisive. Already this deadly plan has forced the Nazi’s to divert into Russia - while divisions are surely needed West instead._
> 
> _Equally damaging are the British raiding forces - attacking with lightening speed - keeping Nazi coastal garrisons on the run. Across the whole of Europe raiders and guerrillas take and loosen the German grip - paving the way for the mass invasion - which alone can bring final victory._
> 
> _One of these forces is the British Commandos, among them - their American and French counterparts; three countries melded together under Captain Steven Rodgers, more commonly known as Captain America. They are a symbol of this new daring warfare - organized desperados who form the advance guard for tomorrows Allied counterattacks. _
> 
> _For initiative and fearlessness; they are the storm-troopers of land, sea and air._
> 
> _These latest pictures from behind the European and Libyan lines show the commando’s at work. Adapted to a hundred different climates and conditions, the same tactic is coming into use in every part of the globe. Even in the forests of Burma and the Indies - Australian and Netherland teams - experts in the art of jungle camouflage have been waiting behind the Japanese lines; sniping, carrying, sabotaging._
> 
> _Here we have Captain America and his team…_

. . .

_Monte Cassino Trench Line, Italian Front, _41.4941° N, 13.83178° E

_ (C Company,  _ _ 1st Battalion The Green Howards, 5th Infantry Division _ _ ) _ _ May 4th _ _ , 1944, 3:48pm  _

It’s raining heavily. The sky is grey; the wooden trench built into the side of a hill grayer; concealed by overgrown blackened bushes and natural rock. Two soldiers walk the perimeter carrying their assigned M1 Carbines. One says:

“I tell you what, this isn’t how I pictured Italy at all.”

“’Nuff said,” the other says, “barely three days of sun in two weeks. The only girls I’ve seen have four legs and moo.”

The pair round the corner and sink into the trench wall to rest their legs, arms wrapped around themselves for warmth as the rain slithers off the edges of their helmets. They shiver.

“You hear who just showed up with D company?”

“Who?”

“The Captain.” The other one says, starstruck.

“He’s here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah,” The older private scoffs, disgusted. “Sure thing. The _Captain._”

“What?” The other asks, affronted by the tone as his fellow shakes his head.

“Oh come on, Rosen. He’s a glorified poster boy. Poses for pictures and disappears when the action starts.”

“I dunno.” The other private replies, “I heard he saved a bunch of guys in D company who got captured - and there was the huge rescue up North last year! The 107th I think.”

“Wise up.” The solider tells him, “It was staged for the newsreels, that’s for the folks back home. Nobody’s coming to pull our butts outta' this mess, kid.”

“What about the raid ongak!” He cuts off - jerking and choking.

He’s thrown forwards; slammed back - metal claw crushing his throat from above. The older jerks away, yelling. There’s a man made of metal, a solid faceplate and shoulders embedded with weapons in front of him. It has Rosen’s windpipe crushed in a pincer. There’s so many nooks and crannies to it he can’t focus on them all - but there’s a tentacled emblem in white paint on the chest. It looks like an octopus the man saw at a zoo once. A mechanical _whirr_ builds - it jerks Rosen like a dog tearing meat. Rosen yowls inside a crack - is pulled up and _thrown_. The soldier flees and falls, fumbling with his Carbine as he scrambles backwards. He watches with horror as the metal monster drags his gasping and keening comrade out of sight - _crack crunch_ \- his companion is dead with a whirr and a snapping of bone.

His heart thumps. Movement to his right; the long corridor of trench; a sharp turn junction. There’s three soldiers blocking the path -_ they’re not his men_. They have gas masks, and they carry metal shields; huge bolts dented into metal plates in lines.

_They’re breached, his line has been breached. When? How? This isthey’re breached they’re breached they’re_

He squints; starts firing. The barrel ricochets back into his shoulder with each pull of the trigger. They block the shots with their shield - and advance. They kill two of his own men who try to assist him. It’s so loud. His barrel ricochets; the bullets dent the shields but not the men. It’s no use - it’s not working. He’s going to die.

The whir of the metaled men sounds out - he remembers the pincer. His hands shake and no - his gun clatters - he stumbles to his feet, scrambling_ back back back_. He needs to get out. _He needs to get out!_

He falls into a wall - keeps going. Round the corner, air rushing past him. Soil scatters over his shoulders and behind. He doesn’t hear the blast first, it comes second to the rush of it. He stumbles - more soil - skinning his hands on wood below - splinters catching between his thumb and forefinger. He can’t keep his feet. He falls. Crawls along the ground. He’s weaponless, they’re just behind him, advancing calmly and confidently. It’s like they don’t feel the blasts - or the rain or_ or anything._ He’s going to die - he’s never going to see his children again, just as he feared.

The middle one takes the lead, he snarls: “Hail Hydra.”

_Who?_

Quick cold clouds of mist burst out out of his mouth as he gasps. It still raining. He won’t be going home to his Edith; his wife doesn’t have the money for a funeral.

_Twangg!_

The middle man is thrown off his feet, takes out another as he falls. The striker - a metal disc? - ricochets; hits another with a shower of sparks. It moves so fast. It springs back towards him - oh god. Up high on his right; there’s a man. He somersaults into the trench, catching the sparking disc with unhuman reflexes. He’s wearing blue - there’s an A on his helmet; his disc has the colour of the flag on it. Is this…? It can’t be.

“Fall back solider.”_ Captain America_ orders; to _him_. “I’ll take it from here.”

He starts forward; running the other way - falling back until he finds his division.

. . .

STEVE

He takes his shield, he runs, and he rams himself into the third enemy solider; denting the gas mask over his face and slamming him into the wooden wall; he goes limp; and Steve turns instinctively; ducking below the blast of a bullet from behind. He catches another enemies arm mid-swing of the knife, one hand, two hand, and cracks him in the face. He catches the trench knife as the enemy drops it, turns and throws it in a spinning somersault at the shooter.

The sound of shellings echo in the night sky; illuminating the horizon black and orange; but it’s not the sounds of _Panzerschreck__’s _or_ M-49’s _he can hear. It’s something else, just like the absurd speed of the sudden attack.

They were here to investigate a lead from the intel Bucky and Dernier brought back from Russia; half a torn-off fax at the bottom of the crate the key - notes of a part shipment for a metal that Howard’s go-to man identified as rare in the sense it’s been put through chemically enhanced treatment. Bucky gave him the details of Slovenco, and what he heard when he wasn’t supposed to be listening. Man in Metal. Big guns. Rumors. Test.

Whatever happened in Slovenco - they think was a test; proven successful. And when tests are successful - they’re expanded upon… They were halfway across the land in an spontaneous mission, heading for the laboratory that they suspect is manufacturing the chemical treatment, when they caught a third of D Company captured and trapped behind the line. And well, they couldn’t just leave them, could they?

So they didn’t.

And then the next day, and hour before they were about to head back out on their aborted mission after the sun went down, the radios cut of six miles down the line. All the communication went dead, something monstrous sounded out, and a lot of people started dying. In seconds. Steve broke across no-man's as a short cut; ducking, twisting and jumping over barbed wire.

He finishes with the last man - and this time when he throws his shield the edge slices right the way through a man’s side. He picks it up; the disc edge sticky with cooling blood.

The way is clear.

Steve takes a moment; listens for Hydra from that direction; then turns and follows the soldier’s route into the roofed corner of the trench. There’s abandoned shelves and a broken pallet laying at an angle - a flickering gas lamp hangs, swinging. He passes several crates with faded US stars stamped in white. He moves on, jogging, searching. A grenade explodes somewhere.

_Who are these guys, are they Hydra in their getups? __Have__ they missed the shipment - and this is the result?_ One bunch comes running round the corner. These ones don’t carry rectangular shields or gas masks; different again, but they are wearing masks, metal over their jaws with rectangular grates for them to speak through. Their eyes look different - bluer. More vivid with burst capillaries at the corners. He hits one with his shield, bluntly this time.

_Time to see if they can take a punch._

“On your knees!” Another snarls as the first one splinters the trench wall and further still until he’s lodged in the dirt; ribs broken and trapped like the earth has half swallowed him whole; then decided it didn't like the taste. He keeps going, one hit, two hits - his shield clangs. They go down. He's trying to make sure he leaves more alive than he does dead. He searches their bodies quickly; finds nothing of use. One tries to get up behind him; there’s a spark; electricity crackles - he brings him down again before he can use the baton. That’s…new. Allied soldiers appear; take the unconscious men prisoner. He advances again towards where the fighting's the thickest.

“They’re not human!” He hears a solider shout.

The hallway opens up round the corner, there’s a solider armed with - he doesn’t know what; making huge sweeps with something that’s glowing - the men can’t compete. They fall, their skin blistering.

“Pathetic American!” One of them shouts down at one of Steve's soldiers, about to finish. Steve hits them from behind with his shield, follows with a spinning kick. A blast goes off too close; the stack of cut tree trunks rumble and fall with heavy weight - Steve shoves an Allied solider out the way so he isn’t crushed. More come. He throws his shield so it rebounds off the wall and knocks them off their feet as they come out swinging. He keeps going, fighting four at once as they close in on him. While he has his gun - he finds he's more effective over these months at hand-to-hand. He’s better than he was in his first fight; more than battle-tested by now; it's close quarters, but there’s no close calls.

He spins sideways with a flash before they can catch or track him; dodging between them by sneaking behind one and elbowing him in the back of the neck before he can turn. They all stay down, collapsed where they fell. Steve counts seven.

Back in the roofed maze of corridors he accidently sucks in as a cloud of dust as smoke burst out in front of him by his head. He coughs once and it clears from his lungs. Everything becomes clear in his lungs - they don't catch. The swinging lights flicker and he hears it coming before it lands - jolts to a sudden_ stop._ The roof in front of him collapses with wood, fire and soil. It burns brightly, he can’t get past so he simply turns to the right.

He sees a flash of blue as he passes the wider area lined with bunk beds. “Bucky!” He calls, checking.

“I got it covered here!” He yells, firing down another corridor, never staying still longer than a few seconds; constantly moving. “But some guys are pinned down up ahead.” He points in the direction. "That is the last fucking time you break into no-man's land, you hear? Do you fucking hear me?!" He snaps out faster when Steve doesn't given him a satisfactory answer in the fifth of a second he allows.

"Loud and clear, buddy!" He answers, clasping his shoulder briefly so Bucky can track the movement of his next advance as he passes behind. "Watch your angle. Twelve o"

Bucky gets the twelve o'clock trying to creep on his six before he can get the warning out; attuned.

"Never mind!"

"Never mind your ass!" Bucky shouts over his shoulder.

"My ass, how about your ass!"

"Will both you asses stop flirting!" Gabe yells down the line of trench; so Steve makes a point of laughing as he signal-clasps him too. "Attrition, bull horn formation, flank." He orders near his head as he moves, pointing down Gabe's line of attack. He knows Bucky can hear the manoeuvre command; and seconds later he hears Bucky take charge of the outlying men as Gabe sets the first tactic. That's go, move on. Steve trusts his men.

“Hold the line!” A Sergeant shouts at the bottom of the next as he rounds the corner. “Show em’ what we’re made of!”

He runs past a group of men; firing over the trench past the Sergeant, stomping on a sodden telegraph and through another cloud of dust. He runs into another and another, breaches the line and jumps down into the new trench;_ this has to be Hydra with weapons like this even if they’re not wearing __insignia's__._

“Keep going Cap! We’ll hold them here!” One of his guys shouts.

"Buck and Gabe have got Bullhorn - follow through!"

"Oui Oui!" Jacques shouts and Morita goes:

"Oh hell-fucking-yes!"

Bright yellow-white bolts of machine gun fire splinter the wood in front of him and he see’s Dugan in the tunnelled open room. There’s the usual barrels and gas lamps but also several tables and two standing boards pinned with maps.

“Dugan, rally some men and secure this room. I need a working radio, ASAP. This is a Hydra attack.”

“Jesus, are they following us now?” He says, “There was no sign of them before. This is nowhere near one of their strongholds.”

“It can’t be anyone else; not with their equipment.”

“Alright, on it Cap.”

Steve heads down another two corridors, men running left and right. A huge stutter of gunfire - _bang bangbangbangbangbang_ \- fire - his way blocked again. _Screw it,_ he thinks, and runs at the rubble - launches himself up and over through smoke and brimstone onto blackened dirt and split barrels. He coughs as he lands, covers his mouth; running through more than just smoke with his eyes closed to prevent blistering.

He’s out of the trench, back on God’s natural earth; blackened by fire; trees burning with the blown out engines sunken in the dirt. He combats the men running for him - kicks, hits, grunts - yells out as one shoves an electrical baton into his side. He only lets it last for a second and rams the edge of his shield with both hands into the soldier’s helmet - kicks the one behind him in the head so he flies away, head over heels.

Allied men hold their fire as he runs into the zone - three are running towards him and yell, “There’s something huge up there! I don’t think it’s human! It’s”

He’s cut off by an explosion striking between them; and they’re flung apart; bodies, limbs and burnt skin. He has to run past them; through the flames; knowing he can’t stop and that the men are probably already dead. He takes to his knees; ducking low to see what he’s walking into.

There’s a man made of metal stood at the centre of the valley surrounded by two tanks. It’s tall, at least six and a half feet, wearing a red mask with a deep metal box strapped to his back. The weapon it carries takes both hands to operate, thick in the barrel. It splits off into four spiked points; a huge energy builds up - white instead of blue.

_Good Lord._

It fires at one of the tanks, one long beam of light and…the entire tank…goes with the explosion like _nothing _he’s ever seen_. Ripped apart and burned from the inside - there’s nothing left but tread. _The other tank fires an Eight-Eight - meant to destroy a building or a Tiger. It explodes, short range directly at the floor of the thing’s centre of gravity.

_Got him, _Steve’s head cheers. “Yes!” comes out loud. His grin falls, horror building as the glow of the gun appears among the flames - the metal suit follows. The thing reaffirms it’s feet, like shaking off a small stumble._ That’s not possible._

It walks, heavy and tight, a few steps. The huge weapon hums and - Steve starts running - the tank is obliterated; the tread frame left while the rest of the metal blows back in a screech of twisted steel - folding and crumbling backwards until it’s gone. It turns - Steve tackles into it’s side - his shoulder meeting the reinforced metal joint of his arm. His face smashes against the shoulder pad and he grunts in pain. It’s shoved back a few yards but keeps it’s feet.

It yells out a deep battle cry. 

It’s a person. There’s a person in there. It’s not a automation; a robot. Someone real is in there. He doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or scared. Both, probably. If Hydra have_shit!_

It slams it’s impossible weapon into the ground in front of him; and Steve one doesn't move quick enough, and two, severely underestimates the coming force.

He hits the ground, further stumbling from the ring of fire as it explode outwards - singeing his arm hair and very narrowly missing his eyebrows. It’s stood ready for him.

Pausing. Waiting.

He forces himself to roll back upwards, the small of his back smarting. He flings his shield hard enough that his feet leave the floor and it strikes _the thing_ at the join of it’s suit and helmet. The thing grunts, cringing, twisting to the side. It swings it’s weapon at Steve who forces it forward, shield on his back again. They wrestle for it.

“Aargh!” Steve grunts, long and painful, teeth bared. The thing’s strong and he can’t - he bends his knee up and rockets it into the thing’s kneecap. It grunts - so it felt it - but twists, keeping the weapon but stumbling_._

Steve ducks sharply as it strikes at his head - forcing distance between them.

_ T_ _his is gonna’ take everything I’ve got._

It raises the weapon, about to slam it into the ground again - Steve moves into it’s space with a huge swinging uppercut to the chin. Between the red metal lining of the jaw and shoulder joint is almost like chain-mail, and several links burst off in a shower of shatter. It’s the only sign of damage Steve’s managed to do to this suit. It stumbles back several steps, shaking it’s head to clear it. Steve goes in with a kick so it bends at the waist to cover it’s stomach and slams his elbow into the same spot.

The butt of the weapon cracks him in the back of the neck.

Steve cries out, vision black, and they both stumble away from each other.

He forces a half breath out, bent over, tries to run back in half blind with his neck pounding with pain. The thing strikes the floor with the weapon - the ring of fire - black smoke blasts him back. The shield protects him but - his forehead burns and blisters and he’s stuck for what feels like too long - blinking black spots out of his vision - flat on his back and defenceless.

He hears the thump of a step towards him; the click as a bullet on the thing’s shoulder chambers. _Our Father Who Art in Heaven…_

“Hey shitface!”

Sixteen bullets, a huge burst of them, collide into the thing’s chest and head. Maybe one dents properly the metal on the cheek, but otherwise - it distracts and blinds it long enough for Steve

“Watch your six!” Morita yells from by the trigger, spurting out another blast; and Steve rolls roughly, painfully a couple of feet right. The ground bursts up from the side of him; and through blurring vision he see’s Deriner tackle Morita from the side as his Browning and a good chunk of the hill goes up in twisted metal. He can’t wait to see if they’ve survived it - even though Morita has just saved his _fucking ass._

He crawls to his feet, throwing the shield so it strikes at the centre of the chest. The grunts that come out now are higher - more pained. He twists past the weapon as it _vrrrssshhh’s,_ somersaults and kicks the thing in the broken chain-mail with his steel toed boot. He lands on it’s shoulders; folds his fingers into the edge of the links; grasps the feel of skin with his numb fingertips. He yanks with both hands on it’s neck - there’s a nasty snap. Already falling with the weight of a ton of metal; whoever was inside goes limp with it. It falls with a heavy thud and clank - the weapon falling from it’s hand. The corners of the points still sparking with energy splutter; then continues vibrating with white electricity - like Tesla’s oscillator.

Steve pants, regaining his feet, and properly, finally, looks. The gunfire behind him seems to have stopped, and he walks closer to the metal and spots the casing. He knows it would be heavy if he were to pick it up. On the handle it states, in yellow paint: .72. There’s seventy two of these things out there at least - _god help us._

Man in Metal. Big guns. Rumours. Test._ Maybe six hundred dead? I don’t know._ Bucky had said,_ that number I gave you earlier - that was what they told us._

_But you think there was more?_

_I think a lot of fucking things._

Ears ringing - he turns his head as an engine speeds up and takes away unseen; timed as if for the battle’s end.

A different kind of test. A test if it could hold up against Steve; and they watching. They were watching.

He orders sharply for someone to get eyes on the truck; running himself - this can’t get back to Hydra. Someone shoots; and he jerks sideways; skimming the sniper shot from somewhere unseen. Then another and another, from elsewhere, until he has to slow; and the shots stop when he does. Seven men die in the chase.

Dugan’s words of - “are they following us now?” come to mind. All the questions Steve’s had about Hydra’s operation in the last month rear their ugly heads as though they never left. He returns to the cratered site; the weapon still spluttering - and skids down the hill.

Morita holds a hand up; signalling. _A-okay._ Good. Steve pats his heart twice - a signal of _thank you._

The thing is where he left it, but that doesn’t matter - because there’s only one Steve. One Steve, and one Red Skull. Maybe six hundred dead in the first.

_There’s seventy two of these. _

Men in fatigues fall in behind him, still armed and very wary.

“What the hell’s going on? Since when does the enemy have ordnance like this?” One says, clearly spooked, motioning to the weapon still sparking ominously with each raindrop strike.

“They don’t.” Steve replies, hard. “Not the Nazi Army. Not yet.” He shakes his head, thumbing at the back of his throbbing neck, eyes on what he can now see of the fallen monster. There’s a tentacled skull stamped white on the grey metal of the thing’s solar plexus. “This is a different enemy.”

He walks away as a man runs up to him, claiming Dugan sent him. He has a carry-on radio on his back. Steve turns him and pulls the receiver off. It’s already turned to the SSR command line, courtesy of Dugan. “Get me Howard Stark.” He orders.

. . .

He wanders back to the main trench command, following someone who knows the path back through the maze. Morita's taken charge at this point of position, arguing with two Sergeants loudly.

“Jim!” Steve calls, then see’s why as the unarmed prisoners they took are lying on the ground. Some have their jaw masks half taken off, hanging by a single strap with foam and spittle leaking into the dirt. There’s foam coming through the grates of the masks of those still wearing them. There’s one still alive and struggling.

The Sergeants snap to attention at his voice, “Captain. We’re sorry, we didn’t know. They”

He holds up a hand. He knows. They had them in their teeth. “How many?” He asks, trying not to rub a hand over his face in resignation.

“How many dead, or how many still miraculously alive?” Jim asks.

“How many do we have?”

“Four. Barnes pulled out two before they bit down, Falsworth got one, me another. You gotta’ get them quick.” He turns to inform the Sergeants, “before they wake up. The fuckers don’t hesitate.”

“Normal Germans don’t carry cyanide in their teeth.” One argues.

“These ain’t normal folks, trust me.”

“On the bright-side that’s thirty something less troops for Hydra to throw at you again.” Dugan points out, emerging from the roofed trench to the right. “Bucky's seeing if there’s anymore alive to yanno’” he motions to his mouth and whistles like an bird before Steve can ask. “Dernier’s with ‘im.”

“On the downside:” Jim butts in, “that’s also thirty something less chances of intel.”

Dugan raises an eyebrow, ignoring the soldiers around them watching with bewilderment and wonder. “Please,” he scoffs, “how many of the one’s we’ve captured have actually given up anything?”

They both have a point there.

“Get them secured and on route to Philips. It doesn’t mean we can’t try.” Steve says. Even if it is pointless, even they’ve yet to find anyone who is _even close_ to not a hundred percent loyal to Hydra.

. . .

It’s night-time, and Steve rolls over onto his side, frustrated. The fight has cooled from C Company since Hydra’s attack and now it’s time to take a moment to rest. Or it’s supposed to be. His face is slathered in cooling cream, and he’s minus one eyebrow - much to Jones’ and Bucky’s amusement.

There’s also the standing point that he can’t sleep.

The _ratatata,_ despite it that being the sound, is not a strong enough description - because it might be happening miles away against the Gustov Line - but it sounds like it’s _right in Steve’s eardrum_. He’s normally pretty good at drowning out the enhanced sounds from his evolved hearing; thanks to a neat trick where he isolates one singular tone; normally a soft wind, or a rustle of grass or the creaking of crickets - and lets the rest fade away so he can sleep to just one background. He’s done it with gunfire too - when they’ve had to hold a position by one person laying down defensive rounds while the rest sleep a few feet away - but there’s so much of it in so many different tones it’s hard to focus on one singular before another shocks him back out of his drift. It’s like being directly under a firework storm, only without the colourful gay lights. Tonight, after the stress of the day fighting _that thing_ \- it’s as though its all just there with the specific purpose of interfering with Steve’s already temperamental sleep schedule.

Something big, a 8000lb HC bomb, Steve would guess; detonates into the ground, and he feels it shudder through the soil and a vague rush of air tingle on his more sensitive skin. A man having more success at sleeping than Steve turns onto his side at the echo, wearing ear muffs but well used to this soundtrack of war. The gravitational sound of gunfire picks back up. Various men are laid down or sat up in sleep on this line; catching winks where they can while their company-men who drew the lucky straws are in the cots beneath wooden cover.

This is the first time _in his life_, bar the first tricksy night after the serum, he’s been unable to sleep because of the sheer _noise_ of everything. Even when they briefly lived next to the midnight train line he felt the vibrations shaking the walls but never the noise - because _all_ sounds of the world had been muffled out since an ear infection when he was four. He was more aware of Bucky at the time tossing, turning and screaming silently into his pillow.

“Aw, Jesus.” He hears Morita mutter along the way, shuffling himself into his coat. There’s no muffling this, not for Steve - whose picking up _everything _\- from the drone of Spitires; the implosion before the explosion of a Grand Slam; right the way down to small pistols as men attempt to storm into the next town over.

“What?” Falsworth asks beside him.

“I miss London.” Morita mumbles into the tweed.

Someone else Steve doesn’t recognize laughs, before it’s lost in the next boom, says: “don’t we all fella’.”

He can hear the vague crackle of fire four miles away underneath the big booms as a textile factory begins the journey on the way to becoming ash. He briefly flashes back;_The light behind him laughs, then flares. it’s red fire not white evangelical light behind him now. He can see now as Corinthians 11:14 speaks through him: And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light._Something claw-like slaps it’s hand against his shoulder. It breaks skin - Steve slaps it sharply, body already twisting and ready to move---but there’s nothing there.

There’s no inferno swirling behind his back - no devil - so----_fuck._

Maybe it’s good he can’t sleep - if he’s only going to relive that nightmare a second time.

Hissing like fiery snakes; weaving into the writhing shape of wings behind the blasted figure, are flames. It says “_Go on. Finish, boy._” And then: “_For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but cast them into Hell and committed them to chains of gloomy darkness to be kept until the judgement - why would he spare you?”_

He squeezes his eyes closed, and then braces his hands over his ears, trying to drone the_ ratatatata_ out, squeezing himself into a ball. It’s only getting---this is too much. He abruptly releases his body from it’s clenched composure, falling into straight-backed seated army rest. He opens his eyes, rubbing them, and checks his forearm. Once burned nearly to the bone, now barely a scar.

If only Doctor Erksine could have provided a serum that would fight away this as surely it does infection.

_You’re fine._ He tells himself, _you’re not a bad person. You’re not---you won’t be condemned…you, you won’t. _He hopes. He prays.

Steve sighs, crosses himself with his left hand, and swallows a mouthful of stale water from his canteen. He imagines it’s wine at communion for a second, and pulls out a wafer biscuit left over from his breakfast. The blood of Christ, the Body of Christ.

This isn’t the first time in his life that he’s had concerns about Faith, or about his struggle to rest; or even the first time conversations about it have been had, but those conversations were never really about _his_ faith before. That’s always been something he’s kept to himself, private; between himself and God, and until now it’s always been _good_.

The constant crackled rumble, like thunder, tears through the air like a giant bass drum - deafening - and the black sky flashes grey. A large orange flare of a ejected pilot floats over and down, fading as it’s obscured by clouds. The stucco of artillery picks up over it. [_Chrrrick chrrrick chrrrick chrrrrick_](http://writtensound.com/index.php?term=Chrrrick+chrrrick+chrrrick+chrrrrick) \- low and high - occasionally the specific singular sound of a bullet isolates itself from the others. The drone of more Spitfires speed over head. He read once that in the Great War, before this one, the fighting in the Somme could be heard all the way over in Dover.

He’s not going to be able to sleep like this.

His struggle to sleep _used to_ be because he was always thinking so much; wanting to be up and doing something worth his time. His ma used to call him her little insomniac.There was a era where both those things; his sleep pattern and his religion, intertwined like the twisting of a string.

_“I’d rather be awake,”_ Steve used to reply to the nickname, “_you miss too much when you sleep. It’s a waste of time.”_

It’s it’s own brand of amusing irony how Bucky’s been using the same excuse since December.

_His mother would sigh, long-suffering. “With that kind of attitude - it’s no wonder you can’t fall asleep, love.”_

_Steve would shrug. “I’ve got better things to do. It’s not like I don’t get enough sleep when I’m sick - I’m sure it evens out.”_

_“That’s not how it works, you doofus.” The voice comes from behind him, loud so he can hear it, and that’s when Steve realizes he missed the sound of Bucky opening the latch and sliding up the sash window up on the side of his bad ear. It looks like his ma missed it over the sound of the oil frying for their traditional Sunday eggs before Mass._

_“Oh my!” She blurts, hand over her chest in shock. “For the last time - we have a_ ** _ ** door** _ ** _ James, use it. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”_

_“Sorry Sarah,” Bucky replies, both feet hitting the ground as he slides the window back shut. “Though I’d be more worried about giving him,” he pokes the side of Steve’s cheek playfully, smirking, as he makes his way round the table. Steve slaps his hand away. “the heart attack, not you.”_

_“Please.” Steve huffs, making himself look superior. “Like you could do that much damage.”_

_“Maybe you’ve gotta’ a point there.” Flopping down into the only free chair opposite and swinging back on it’s two legs, he looks over his shoulder. “What do you reckon Sarah? Big burly man like Steve here, practically invincible, ain’t he?”_

_He suddenly blows quickly in Steve’s direction, at the same time as he hooks his foot under Steve’s chair, yanking. Steve yelps, arms flapping to catch his balance and slap the chair legs back down to level ground. Luckily he wasn’t holding his damn coffee. “Oh no wait, I just blew him over. I take it back.”_

_“That’s not funny.” Steve tells him seriously, glaring as he crosses his arms._

_Bucky raises an eyebrow, and undeniably Steve knows his face has broken and one side of his lips have quirked up in a smile. “Shut up.” He says instead, “I remember a time where you used to apologize when you made terrible jokes and hurt my feelings.”_

_“I would. If I actually hurt them.”_

_“You did. Do.”_

_“Uh-huh. Then why you smiling?”_

_Because you make me smile every damn day somehow, whether you mean to or not. “You’re mistaking my distraught expression or something else - I’m crying hysterically. I’m inconsolable.”_

_“Oh yeah, for sure. A typical wilted petunia you are.”_

_Steve now actively pretends to start crying, and Bucky snorts as he reaches to steal Steve’s mug. Steve grabs it and hugs it as though he’ll never be parted from it again. Bucky starts laughing, and Steve see’s his mother roll her eyes at him behind Bucky’s back._

_He leans forward and pats Steve’s pretend simpering arm. “I’m ever so very sorry for hurting your delicate feelings.”_

_Steve stops ‘crying’ abruptly, goes “alright then,” and hands Bucky the mug just as he’s made sure there’s nothing left but stained dregs. Bucky takes a swing, and swallows nothing. Looks down. “That’s not funny,” he repeats Steve words, “that’s just cruel. Now _ ** _ **I ** _ ** _deserve an apology - you purposely trick me and take away the only thing I came here for.”_

_“Oh, what, you came all the way down for the coffee, did you?”_

_“Well I ain’t come to see you that’s for sure.” _

_Steve boots his leg under the table, and Bucky knocks him back, so Steve stomps on his foot._

_“Ow! You fu--”_

_“-_ ** _ **-And here I was** _ ** _ hoping it was me you journeyed down to see.” His ma comments loudly so he doesn’t swear, carrying a plate of warm toast ready for Steve to butter._

_“Oh totally,” Bucky replies, recovered, tipping his head back to look at her upside down. “You’re the real reason, coffee the second. But we can’t let Jolly Old Rodgers’ over there know how we got the hots for each other, can we Sar? It’s a se--” Steve’s already stomped on his foot again, and Bucky’s ignored it - so Steve slides right the way down his chair so his feet can reach Bucky’s chair underneath from the other side of the table. He presses his foot right over Bucky’s junk. Bucky breaks off, eyes flicking over to see only Steve’s eyes still peaking up over the table, then takes the risk - smirking despite Steve’s eyes saying ‘I’ll do it, you jerk’ ’“--cret.”_

_He shoves his fore foot into the target. Bucky grunts and guffaws at the same time, scooting his chair back quickly and covering his privates. Steve’s ma puts the plate on the table, and lets Steve get away with that one where she normally wouldn’t._

_Instead she joins in, “Somehow I doubt your ability to keep it hush hush.”_

_“You wound me Sarah. I don’t think our affair can--” he laughs, scooting farther back as Steve’s attacking foot follows, straining his muscles to reach “ --can carry on much longer - not after---”_

_“--after you’ve broken my heart so.” Steve duets the words he’s already guessed Bucky’s going to go with, words pitched in a childishly high voice. He gets his attention again at least._

_“You look ridiculous.” Bucky tells him, where only Steve’s fringe is poking up above the table._

_“You look like a dog ate your face.”_

_“Great I love dogs,” Bucky relates, “you---”_

_“You both--” Sarah cuts off; shakes her head. “Two peas in a pod you are, how you survived apart from each other for ten years, I’ll never know.”_

_“I wonder the same thing everyday.”_

_“I don’t.” Steve tosses, eyes on the buttering of the toast._

_“And _ ** _ **that** _ ** _ it why I’m really here for you Sarah.”_

_She laughs, “in that case I’ll make you the coffee your heart desires.” She kisses the top of his head briefly. “Good morning, by the way.”_

_“Morning.” Bucky chirps back, as happy as he always is. _

_“Help with the buttering - our coffee doesn’t come free.” Steve says, flipping a spare knife over which Bucky takes easily, “you gotta work for it.”_

_They settle down for breakfast a few minutes later, toast suitably buttered and jammed, and though she cooked them for herself; she offers Bucky part of her eggs. He waves her off straight away, only drinking coffee and a spare toast slice Sarah orders him to eat; despite his claims that he’d had breakfast at home._

_“Just didn’t want to hang out there,” he says, and when Steve side-eyes him, he subtly shakes his head that no, there isn’t anyone round, he just wanted a break. “Plus, we ran out of nectar of the gods, so here I am.” He raises his cooling mug in the air._

_“While you are here, would you like to explain this?” Sarah asks, and pinches his loose collar and shakes it. “These are not your Sunday Best, young man. You can’t go to Mass in this.”_

_“Fine with me. Wasn’t planning on going anyway.”_

_Steve’s cutlery scrapes against his plate abruptly. His ma puts down her fork, neat but very _ ** _ **firm** _ ** _, as he knew she would. He’s already predicting where this is _ ** _ **absolutely** _ ** _ going to go. Fuck._

_“You need to go to Church, James.”_

_“I don’t. Not really. Pop’s not home - so ma’s not gonna’ force it, is she?”_

_“Whether your father is or isn’t home should not be factor in your worship--”_

_“Ma.” Steve interrupts carefully, “just leave it.”_

_“No Steve, by God’s grace---” she turns back to Bucky. “You are fifteen, young man, and therefore you are old enough to be responsible for your sacrament. Your piety will be rewarded, but that is only if your piety is observed. It’s Communion.”_

_“If he doesn’t wanna’ go he doesn’t have to go.” Steve breaks in softly, “I know how it’s important to you, it is to me too - but it’s a choice. Like you said he’s old enough. He doesn’t have to go if he doesn’t want to. Besides, we prayed in service last night before the bell rang with Sister Judith.”_

_Well, Steve did. He knows full well Bucky did not; just spent the allotted two minutes of reflection staring at the crucifix or reading his hymn book full of lyrics he already knew. He spent more time sighing in boredom in those minutes than he has with his head ducked and at worship all week. But Steve’s ma doesn’t need to know that._

_The argument - or at least that’s what it’s beginning to come to with Steve telling his ma to drop it and his ma retaliating by refusing to - ends with her standing sharply and letting the the pans clatter frustratingly into the sink. If she did that with the plates still sitting dirty on the table they would be broken. She washes them in tense silence, Steve watches her back warily; and then walks with her back straight into her bedroom to do her hair. She very expressly does not slam the door - because she is a grown woman and a lady who knows her manners._

_Steve has a feeling she maybe isn’t doing her hair, and is instead deciding on a way he’s going to feel it tonight for talking back to her._

_Bucky is surprisingly silent compared to his usual filling of Steve’s natural silences. When Steve looks back at him properly he’s staring resolutely at the table and he looks _ ** _ **really** _ ** _ uncomfortable._

_“Hey.” He kicks Bucky’s chair leg, what he can reach of it. “You okay?”_

_“Y-” He clears his throat, “yeah.”_

_Steve’s ma walks back in the room, picks her scarf up from the table then returns from the corner of his eye. Now that he’s not looking at her he can’t guarantee there wasn’t a slam of the door. Bucky doesn’t flinch as Steve watches him, but then again he’s used to loud noises, and he doubts it as his ma prides herself on her dignity. Instead Bucky watches as she leaves the room, then looks back; and his leg is bouncing against the floor nervously. He picks up his empty mug for something to do with his hands._

_“Sorry, I didn’t mean to start a--”_

_“You didn’t.” Steve assures._

_“I kinda’ did.”_

_“Not intentionally, pal. Ma’s big on faith, you know how she is.”_

_“Well, yeah but….I didn’t,” he glances over his shoulder to make sure she’s out of the room. Steve, when he turns his head and ear to check, can just about hear the patter of the sink in her bedroom running. “I didn’t think she’d care that much, about - about me not wanting to go.”_

_While Steve wants to say he didn’t either, he knows that would be a lie - he knew _ ** _ **exactly** _ ** _ how she was going to react which was _ ** _ **exactly** _ ** _ why he tried to curb it as quick as he did - before she accidentally hurt Bucky’s feelings. Where the bane of Steve’s personality can be considered his stubbornness, his ma, as much as she tries to avoid it, has the occasion where she can be overly judgemental. She doesn’t mean to, Steve knows, but everyone has faults. _

_“She’s not---like really pissed at me for it, is she?”_

_She _ ** _ **has** _ ** _ hurt his feelings. Damn it. Steve rubs his tired eyes._

_“No. No of course not. She’s probably more mad at me for talking back.”_

_Bucky curses, “I didn’t mean to get you stuck in the middle like that.”_

_“It’s fine.” Steve assures, then again when Bucky’s leg starts bouncing faster in agitation. “I mean it, it’s fine. We’ve spent fifteen years together; we’ve gotten each other grumpy plenty of times. She’ll get over it.”_

_Bucky nods, pressing his lips together. “I’ve just been trying to, you know, work some stuff out - and I’m not really feeling it today.”_

_“You don’t really feel it a lot of the time.” Steve observes quietly, putting his mug down and moving his chair closer. When Bucky glances up at him he almost looks spooked, “_ ** _ **Buck** _ ** _.” He says, now drawn out in exasperation, “you’ve been motor-mouthing sedition to me and the nuns since we met. This isn’t a new thing - but,” he allows, “I have noticed - there’s been a drop off in a different way lately.”_

_Bucky just shrugs. “I don’t know if…”_

_“If what?” Steve queries quietly. “If you believe anymore?” _

_Bucky picks up his tea spoon, puts it back down, then nods. Steve was already half-expecting this, but he still swallows. “If I ever did, really? I dunno’ …maybe I just don’t want to. I don’t like a lot of stuff in that book.”_

_“It’s more than just the Bible, Buck.”_

_“I--” he groans, “urgh, I know. It’s just confusing. I don’t know. I know I’m not into it like you are, or pop - whose you know, not the most devout guy in the world, but it’s real important to him anyway. It just doesn’t always feel important to me.”_

_“That’s--that’s fine.”_

_“You don’t think it’s bad? Shouldn’t it be important---”_

_“I think that’s up to you to decide, not me.” Steve replies after a second. “Sorry -,” he adds, “but, _ ** _ **if you were to ask me** _ ** _\---” Bucky nods, wanting to hear the answer to the phrased question, “---I’d say it’s fine, because other things are important to you. And I know, because_ ** _ ** I know you** _ ** _, that none of what is important to you is bad-to-the-bone or selfish - or bad at all. It’s good stuff, so_ ** _ ** somehow** _ ** _,” he nudges Bucky’s arm with his finger, making his friend smile, “I think you’ll be okay, kid.”_

_He inhales a laugh, “you’re the kid, short-stop, not me.”_

_“Shupp’up.” _

_Bucky smiles at the table, then looks up at him again; Steve’s realized their both sat leaning into it instead of at it like they were during breakfast. Bucky checks over his shoulder again, and speaks, so it must mean Steve’s ma is still far away enough. “Don’t hate me here---”_

_“I could never.” Steve promises solemnly._

_“But…there’s so much stuff they tell you you can’t do - that it’s immoral and all that, that’s like---- is there anything you can do, that isn’t sinning? Like - like kissing or - or other stuff --”_

_“You haven’t done other stuff --”_

_“Yes. I know, thank you.” Bucky cuts in, rolling his eyes. “But I might. Soon - I want to. But if I do it before marriage - that means I’m going to hell? I mean,_ ** _ ** come on** _ ** _. Kissing’s fucking swell Steve, you’ll know when you finally get round to it - so can it be so bad?”_

_“I think that’s kind of the point of temptation, pal. It’s supposed to feel good.”_

_“Oh what, so you’re never going to kiss anyone?” Bucky counters._

_“No of course not - I’m gonna’--one day, I’m just saying. _ ** _ **But,** _ ** _” he glances over his shoulder now too. _

_“She still in her room, rummaging through her wardrobe it sounds like, she can’t hear you.” Bucky assures, leaning closer. _

_“But,” he repeats quieter, “I see where you’re coming from. I don’t agree with everything in there either - you can’t without contradicting yourself.”_

_“_ ** _ **Right** _ ** _?” Bucky sounds, vindicated._

_“So I see part, and I mean part, of your point. About elements of it. But I love it, and I believe and, honestly, I always am going to.”_

_“I know that. Of course.” Bucky says, “I’m not trying to---I’m not trying to make you not, either. I swear, it’s just - it’s really good to hear that I’m not pulling shit out of thin air, you know? That - that your hand shooting up in class and all those questions wasn’t just covering for me so Sister Judith didn’t come with the cane again.”_

_“It wasn’t.” Steve assures, “I still got questions about how I’m gonna carry my faith - I just, I tend to do it a lot more respectfully than you.” He adds with a smirk._

_“I’m respectful to the teachers who don’t hit me,” Bucky says, matching it by crossing his arms and leaning back into his chair, “so that’s their own fault.”_

_“Uh-huh.” Steve replies, smiling. “I take it ma hasn’t convinced you about today?”_

_Bucky pulls a face. “No…I’m…still gonna’ skip out. Ma’s still taking the girls.” He explains, “but I told her I didn’t want to go, and she said that it was fine. So long I stayed home long enough to do the dusting.”_

_“Looks like you got a nearly a whole day to yourself then, what are you gonna do?”_

_“Dunno yet - maybe go for a extra few winks--”_

_“Booooo. Don’t be so boring and lazy.”_

_“--if only so I can donate them to you.” Bucky nudges Steve’s chair with his foot easily this time. “How many hours did you get last night?”_

_“Three to four.”_

_“Christ. I don’t know how you do it. I live for sleep.”_

_“I know, from how many times I’ve had to throw a paper ball at the back of your head in the pews.”_

_His mother makes a loud enough sound that Steve hears it, so it must mean she’s ready to go. Steve should get his shoes on._

_“You heading--” Steve nods, so Bucky nods back, “I might - I might clear off then, before it gets any more awkward, if that’s good?”_

_“Course - see you tomorrow? Or maybe later?”_

_“Ten hundred percent.” Bucky replies, clearly ready to make a quick escape before Steve’s ma comes out - and, Steve sad to see it honestly. If only Bucky hadn’t mentioned what he did in both their companies.He wished he’d saved it just for Steve so they would have had this conversation without the preceding dispute._

_ “But…” Bucky adds, halfway out the window already, “Thanks for, for standing up for me.”_

_Steve gives him a cheesy thumbs up, so he leaves with just as strong a smile as he entered with. _

_The next week his ma joins him in the parlour at his usual bright and early, frying the eggs not five minutes later, and when he questioned why - she’d simply said she had an errand to run before Communion. He’d nodded, accepting, and allowed her to straighten his tie and smooth the non-existent creases in his shirt shoulders at the door. He’s been trying to get her to stop, because he’s far to old for this now and he ‘knows’ how to dress himself, believe it or not, but he’s also sporting bruises on his arm and a NYPD written notice that she is _ ** _ **not** _ ** _ happy about - so he’s trying to be conciliatory to get back on her good side. He’s been grounded for trying to pole-walk on one of the beams in the mostly empty railway warehouse near the line, just to see if he could, and nearly fell twenty feet when he got hit with an abrupt dizzy spell. The bruises are from when Bucky dropped onto his belly with a nasty sounding thud and locked his fingers around Steve’s wrist; catching him mid-air and nearly pulling Steve’s shoulder out of socket._

_\------------------_

_“Would you rather of brained yourself---oh shit that hurts---on the---on the concrete?” He’d grunted out from above while Steve hung below, swinging back and forth in the free air. “Mother ffing, shit.” He curses, “that was close.”_

_“Are you okay?”_

_“Turns out - throwing yourself flat onto steel - kinda really fucking hurts. Ow. This was such a stupid idea.”_

_“Pretty sure it was your idea.” Steve helpfully informs._

_“It was not. This was de--fiately you. This is Steve-level kinda’ stupid, not brainless-Bucky stupid.”_

_Truthfully Steve cannot remember whose idea this was, other than that they skipped out on all the other kids messing about in the storage house across from them to try it. Bucky’s the one who always talked about joining the circus, but this does seem like a Steve-level kinda’ stupid idea….oh, yeah, Charlie told him he wouldn’t be able to balance on a table two feet off the ground…_

_It would be very much like Steve to prove him wrong by balancing on a beam that’s two feet across but twenty feet in the air instead._

_“You were kinda good at it.” Steve says, tightening his fingers over Bucky’s own wrist to loosen some of the tension on his wrist alone. This is a big drop - he’d be lucky if he only broke his leg, let alone anything else._

_“You kinda’ weren’t.”_

_“You’re kinda a tool.” Steve retorts._

_“Least I’m a tool who doesn’t get dizzy twenty feet up cause he has better things to do than sleep. Why do I listen to you punk, ma’s right - you are a bad influence. Any idea how were gonna’ get outta this?”_

_“What? You can’t pull me up?”_

_“What do I look like, damn Hercules? It’s not boxing season, I’m down seven pounds, man, and I ain’t exactly in the best position for leverage here.”_

_He’s got a point, chest and face flat against the beam with his legs wrapped around it like a monkey’s tale; one arm hanging below, there’s not a lot of options left. Steve’s screwed the both of them here - Bucky’s trapped up top and Steve’s hanging below. “Can you try?”_

_Bucky tries, good on him - he tries real hard. His face is screwed up and he heaves, and Steve flaps with his other arm, trying to latch back on, but his hand can only grasp air a foot below the beam._

_“Nearly there!” He tells Bucky, “just a bit--” His fingernails scratch against the wood----_

_“Fuck fuck fuck!” Bucky swears sharply, and Steve start slipping - he latches on to Bucky’s wrist with both hands sharpish._

_“Okay, yeah no, that’s not gonna work.” He allows, feet kicking as they try to establish themselves again. “How about you swing me and I try and latch back on?” Is the next option._

_“Steve, the only reason I still have hold of you is because your damn sweat has dried into my hand and fused together - if I swing you too much you’ll slip.”_

_Steve glances down past his feet at the still wavering ground. He is quite high. “Okay, don’t panic - just.” He nods, “Just let go--”_

_“--I’m not going to let you go, you idiot.” Bucky cuts him off impolitely._

_“--If I’m straight up, I’ll--I’ll land on my feet. Bend my knees on impact and all that.”_

_“You. Are. Not. A. Cat.”_

_“And you. Are. Not. A Monkey. You can’t climb your way off when you’ve only got one limb free. This’ll get you in the clear.”_

_“Me getting in the clear is not what I’m worried about.”_

_“I’ll be fine. It’s not that far now.”_

_“I’m not doing it.”_

_“Let go.” Steve presses._

_“No.”_

_“Bucky--”_

_“I’m not letting you go, Steve.” Bucky snaps, “now use those damn street-smarts and figure out another way while I focus on not letting you crack open like Humpty Dumpty. And promise we ain’t doing this shit again until you’ve slept twelve hours.”_

_“And then we’ll try again?” Steve laughs, unable to help it._

_“And then we’ll try with something five feet off the ground and work up to it.”_

_“Still pretty sure this wasn’t your idea?”_

_“Solution, Steve. Now. I can’t hold you forever.”_

_“Okay…I’ve got an idea - you’re not going to like it.”_

_The idea is shouting for help until the other kids hear them or they’re given up and caught by the owners, and Steve is right, Bucky does not like it because it’ll get them in trouble - and so it does. But they get free with the help of a railway worker and a very large ladder - and the owner they snuck past while he was busy in the office - is not happy either. The police escort them home with their first warning of trespassing._

_“It’s not so bad,” Steve whispers to him across the middle seat where his best friend is looking very grumpy, watching the copper’s eyes flicking back to them in the mirror. “Technically this should be our fourth warning - we’re doing pretty siff’in’ if you ask me.”_

_“I hate you.”_

_Steve nods, accepting. “Thank you. By the way - you kinda saved my ass there.”_

_“I wasn’t gonna let you fall was I?”_

_Steve nods, looking at his lap. He’s handcuffed to door handle. Bucky is cuffed to the other. “I wouldn’t let you fall either, if I was any use to anything -” he grumbles, “I’d catch you too.”_

_Bucky kicks him in the shin sideways, attitude changing. “You are of use to a lot of things, don’t be a spoil sport. Before your fainting spell - it was fucking fun.”_

_Steve_ ** _ ** grins.** _ **

_“Watch your language.” The officer in front of them snaps, “and it won’t be fun when you’re behind bars, boys. You best remember that!”_

_They went to Bucky’s place first, coppers’ hands firmly pressed down on each of their shoulders - but neither of his parents were home - and Steve saw his hand clench into a victorious fist as Elizabeth Looney the babysitter opened the door - because that meant he was in clear. He’ll probably pay her off with a chunk of his weekend wages to keep quiet, because the lady needs the money. He’s gets away Scot-free - Steve does not. It’s going to be a long two weeks._

_\-------_

_“Is Mr Barnes home from base this week?” His mother asks, shrugging on her coat._

_“No. He’s still gone. Why?” His ma buttons her coat and leaves out the door with her candle and handbag. “Ma, why?” He asks as she heads up the stairs instead of down. “_ ** _ **Ma** _ ** _.”_

_“I told you - I have an errand to run.”_

_“An erran----ma!” He calls; the answer to her errand snapping into his mind. He runs, cutting her off on the stairs. He cuts Mr Harper off too, and he has to side-step clumsily out of his way. “ You can’t force Bucky to go if he doesn’t want to -” He says quickly, “we’ve been over this.” His ma tries to side-step him._

_“I don’t think you are in any position to be questioning me after yesterday, Steven.” He blocks her again. “Steve, this is your last warn---”_

_“_ ** _ **You’re not his mother, ma** _ ** _.” Steve interrupts sharply, feeling very bold indeed. He keeps going before she gets a chance to flash back at him. “It’s not your job to parent him - it’s Mrs. Barnes’ -” His ma rolls her eyes, which clues Steve regarding her true feelings about _ ** _ **that.** _ ** _ “--and you might not like that, or think whatever your gonna’ think about it - but it’s not your call. I don’t like that he doesn’t want to go either - but you know what, he doesn’t like it _ ** _ **when he has to go.** _ ** _ And it’s not fair to force him into a environment he doesn’t want to be in - which is probably why his ma’s cutting him so much slack about it. It’s like---” He falters for a moment thinking, “it’s like when you tried to pull me out of scouts,”_

_“You were being_ ** _ ** bullied** _ ** _. That is not the same.”_

_It is, in someways, Steve doesn’t say. Some of things Bucky’s caught flack for questioning over the years has been rather uncalled for, which is why Steve often gets himself involved as a distraction - and it’s likely one of the reasons Bucky’s so divided on the subject now. He’s happy to get knocked about for couple of rounds outside of school and in the ring - but he has a particular hate for the cane. That hasn’t changed since he was ten, just as Steve’s hate for bullies hasn’t changed - has only grown._

_“You wanted to pull me out because I didn’t like it - and if I wasn’t so stubborn in refusing to quit out of pride, it would have been.”_

_“It is not the same. This is Church, Steve.”_

_“Ma---”_

_“So you would allow him to disregard his faith, this is something you would happy to do?”_

_“Ma - _ ** _ **stop.” ** _ ** _He repeats firmly. “He doesn’t find solace in the homilies, and that’s not the worst thing in the world. So would you--- would you please stop acting like he’s doing something wrong. It’s not fair.”_

_He loves you like family, and I don’t want you to push him away inadvertently - and I could see it happening last week at the dinner-table. He needs all the female role-models he can get, Steve thinks, already aware of how temperamental things are really starting to get since the Big Walk-In last year._

_“His soul---”_

_“--Is good. And kind and happy - and so even if he doesn’t pray, I’m sure he’ll be okay.”_

_“That’s not the way it works Steve.”_

_“Well, have you ever thought that maybe it should?”_

_His ma falters back at that contrary thought, at the fact that maybe - perhaps he’s been having doubts too._

_“Steve, you---”_

_ He worries suddenly, knowing how important her faith is to her, that she’ll blame Bucky for him coming to question his own too. He takes her hands, “I’m not not going to stop praying, not even close - and of course I believe in God and Heaven and Christ - but I don’t think everything needs to be taken so literally.” He explains, “whatever good is put out into the world will be paid back, I believe that, but there’s lots of different paths - and not all of them have to be communion. I’ll pray for him, if it’ll make you feel better - but please, will you just listen to this one last thing?”_

_She nods after a long lone moment._

_“He’s not a bad person for not wanting to go sometimes. He goes other times, when he wants to, so that should be enough.” He sighs, “Every person’s relationship to God is their own, so really, it’s not your business either way. There’s more than one single way to be a Christian, ma.”_

_“Are you finished?” _

_Steve nods._

_“Good.”_

_She steps past him and carries on up the stairs. _

_MA! Near anger blooms for how completely she’s just disregarded everything he’s said. He chases her up the stairs, but has to break off against the wall, coughing. He paces himself - heads up them as fast as he’s able without setting off an asthma attack._

_His ma’s already knocked on the door and it’s opened, with Becca in the doorway; in her dress and halfway through braiding her hair. Mrs Barnes has little Lily perched on the ironing board as she wrestles her into her white ruffles and hat. They’ve already exchanged greetings._

_“Would you mind grabbing your brother for me, dear?”_

_“Um, sure. Hey Buck-balls!” Becca calls over her shoulder with no hesitation._

_“Becca!” Bucky’s ma orders, “We have company - save your nicknames for your brother for when you aren’t able to embarrass us in public. Honestly.” Becca shrugs at Steve behind his mother, unrepentant, as he coughs, leaning against the wall._

_Steve see’s Bucky enter the Barnes’ parlour from the kitchen at the sound of her voice, still in his pajamas. For god’s sake ma---_

_“You’re not dying, are you?” Becca asks him, leaning against the doorway, and for once actually looking vaguely concerned. He’d actually be quite honored if he wasn’t rankling with ire._

_“Probably only mostly dying.” Bucky adds in, tossing him an apple. He butt-shoves Becca out of the doorway with his hip, and she nearly trips and falls on the floor. Steve jerks, trying to catch, and fumbles it. It hits the floor and rolls, now bruised and covered in dust. Bucky points casually with his own apple, with a chunk bitten out of it at Steve. “That’s why you never made the baseball team, you know.”_

_Steve’s ma catches his wrist, turns it over, and Steve can see his own hand-prints vaguely over the skin - nowhere as bad as his own, but--- “No questions needed as to where you got this.” She murmurs to herself._

_Bucky clears his throat sharply and pulls it back, glancing over his shoulder at his ma who is still clearly uninformed of what they were doing yesterday. “Morning. What can I do for you cool kids today?”_

_Steve has gotten his breath back, and darts forward, grabbing his mothers arm. “Nothing, nothing. Just thought we’d say hi, we’ll be going now.” He says quickly, trying to tug her away. “Ma leave it--” he hisses, hoping Bucky can’t hear, but he’s not always well versed in terms of volume for other people. _

_“Stop being a child, Steve.” She nearly snaps at him, tugging her arm back, turning back to the doorway. “I would like you to get dressed.”_

_“Ma.” He stresses._

_Bucky blinks, surprised, glancing between them. Steve’s sees the realization dawning in his eyes----_

_“For twelve o’clock.” Steve closes his mouth abruptly. Twelve is long after service is fini-- “It doesn’t do for a boy your age to spend his entire day in his bedclothes.” She says, “I thought we could meet for lunch, the three of us--- or four Becca if you would to join. You and the twins too Winifred. Ice-cream maybe, my treat.”_

_She likely doesn’t have the dosh for icecream for seven people on a Sunday morning, not after the usual alms she donates, so that’s she offered it to be polite to them all means something’s changed her mind very quickly. To Steve’s eyes, this seems like a rushed cover. Maybe it was his words that did it, or maybe she saw Bucky’s whole posture beginning to close off when the realization dawned of what she was trying to order him to do._

_“O-oh.” He glances at Steve beside her, “okay.” _

_“Good. We can meet you outside the building, I’m sending Steve home after service to have a nap,” she glances and gives him hard eyes, “seeing as if he’s so determined to risk his life on petty dares, he might as well be _ ** _ **well-rested** _ ** _ for when inevitably does it again.”_

_Mrs Barnes laughs from inside, “what on earth have you been up to now, Steve?”_

_“Oh, you don’t know?” His ma asks in surprise, and Steve starts slashing his arm in the air as a signal for Bucky to abort! Abort! before his cover gets blown. “Because----”_

_“That sounds great Sarah! We’ll meet you there. I’ll go brush my teeth now, you don’t want to be late for best seats, bye!”_

_He closes the door in their faces, and Steve lets out a breath. His ma crosses her arms. _

_She gives him eyes over her shoulder. “His parents don’t know do they?”_

_“Um ---” he tries to stall, then gives up, “if you keep quiet I’ll pay for the ice-cream.”_

_“Bribing your mother is not a very Christian thing to do, is it Steve?” He lets out a nervous laugh, as she side-steps past him. “And your paper round only pays so much. Take it slow down the stairs, don’t run. You know your symptoms get worse when you’re tired. That’s why you’re going for a nap.”_

_“I’m fifteen ma, you can’t exactly order me to bed anymore.”_

_“Watch me.” She retorts, “unless you want to be grounded for a month instead.”_

_He really doesn’t, but he also doesn’t want to admit defeat to her, so he says nothing. At the bottom of the stairs he does have to say, “I know it goes against a lot of what you stand for, but I’m proud of you.”_

_She just hums, still clearly in two minds about her back-track. She stops him abruptly, “make sure he pays attention in Bible Study, and you _ ** _ **make sure** _ ** _ he observes in chapel at school - and I’ll leave off. At least then he’s getting something for himself.”_

_“Okay,” Steve meets her halfway, “I will.”_

_“And I want you to re-read Colossians 4-2 this evening. Please.” She adds, latent. At least it’s not Timothy 3:1-7, Steve thinks, glad it’s not an inverted instruction to avoid people categorized as faithless; which he has a feeling Bucky really is beginning to develop into. It worries him, almost as much as he’s worried about his own growing questions that Monseniour D’Belle is unable to give him a satisfactory answer for. “And…if you are having questions or---about your faith,” She begins again haltingly. “…I want you to feel comfortable talking to me about it if you want or need to. I won’t judge- or----I will try not to judge, because you’re right, that’s not fair.”_

_“Okay, ma.” Steve says, “I’ll think about it. I still love Him, I want you to know that.”_

_She smiles at him, and hugs him from the side, kissing his head. “I know, love. Everyone’s relationship with Him above is different. I forgot that for a moment. Not everyone has to think the same way I do.”_

Steve tips his head back and watches the sky, back straight otherwise. It’s Spring now so Orion and Sirius are gone from stars, but now he has Leo, Cancer and Boötes to look for. He ignores the fact that he can also see Hydra up there too.

. . .

They arrive back from the investigative delve into Italy once more overloaded with the strange weaponry - and collected accounts from the men of C Company who faced off against them first; how they destroyed tanks with one blast to add to their own.

Howard must finally return from his own Stark Enterprises compound in the States around the same time; as Steve hears him clanking in his SSR work wing even if he doesn’t see him.

He checks his watch a moment, noting the time; and stands. He slides the DEPARTED slab into the space in his door, replacing the PRESENT and leaving the INSITU slab on the shelf by the door; letting the personnel know he will be out of the compound for the foreseeable hour or so in case they come looking for him. Peggy’s noted door says DEPARTED and it has done for two weeks now, since their…Rendezvous behind a locked door. He gets excited just thinking about it; even if they didn’t go all the way. He needs to remember to subtly get some johnnys, not that he expects…but just in case. He wasn’t quite expecting that their truth-telling would get so hot under the collar, and so he wasn’t prepared. He has to admit now though - there is some truth to idea that anger can lead to passion.

He knocks on the door a few down; Dernier, Jones and Bucky’s room for the moment. Jones is reading, it looks like, while Dernier’s having a nap. His brow bone is still bandaged up in the little spots of gauze; but he’s remained cheerful as ever. When Gabe asked what the hell happened there, Bucky had told him “not to fucking ask”, and Steve remembered his letter about Dernier’s diabolical delight.

It’s an hour of free-time before dinner after a long three hour meeting. Bucky’s playing solitaire against himself on the floor; while the radio spits out staticy troop movements; most of the signal lost underground.

He glances up as Steve opens the door; gives him a brief but honest smile. He’s been in rather good spirits since he returned Steve’s happy to see - his mood has dipped a couple of times - but nowhere too low compared to….well, compared to before. His eyes are somewhat less shadowed too; and with his hearing; Steve hasn’t overheard him calling out through the brick yet. Before: he seemed to getting louder the more time that went on. Now he’s able to sleep through the night, and Steve’s the one whose struggling as much as he used to.

He doesn’t think it’s a waste of time nowadays; with how he’s physically witnessed the deterioration of his best friend with each and every hour lost in the last four months.

_“Hey hey hey!” Dugan calls from across the table suddenly, eyes directed behind Steve. “Look who it is! The wandering travelers return!”_

_Steve turns, heart jumping in excitement, because he already knows. Dernier comes through the doorway first, carrying one end of two crates with another aide - and Bucky’s got the rear, loaded up and lugging both their heavy packs with fair ease._

_“Salut! Salut!” Dernier grins as wide as the Cheshire Cat. “Tis’ been e’, er, time since I you mon amis.”_

_Morita laughs, “You should not be this happy to see us, of all people Jacques.”_

_“Of course I am happ’e, ‘ou would be a too, if you had to spend e’ month with this ugly face.” He cants a thumb behind him right as Bucky says:_

_“That’s the last time this ugly face does you a favour then you ungrateful swine.”_

_He’s smiling, Steve realizes, Bucky’s smiling. Properly. Freely - he looks like he’s slept, for one, and his stature, even just slightly, seems different. He shoves Jacques forward in the small of the back with one hand so he stumbles into Jones’ hug and handshake. He meets Steve’s eyes. “We bring presents.” He announces, gesturing to the crates Dernier just abandoned in the doorway and that the aide is now trying to bodily drag to the side. “Don’t ever say we don’t do anything for your beloved SSR, Cart--oh she’s not here.”_

_“On mission.” Steve replies, slipping through the crush of bodies, nods his head at the aide so he stands back. Steve presses his foot lightly against the corner of the piled crates, and it easily skids away so it is not blocking the doorway. The crates are Red Army stamped, and the label is crossed out and annotated - covering the old ammunition label as they recycle the used crate. The only thing Steve can recognize on the label on the top is Karpov’s signature. The lock seals have been broken._

_“That was me.” Bucky assures, then asks: “Still?” _

_“Nah, she came back. Then off again. No rest for the wicked and all that.”_

_Bucky snorts; shrugging off the straps of the two packs and pushing Dugan away as he tries to give him an over-exaggerated smooch. “Fuck. Off.” He tells him with a grin, so Dugan grins back. “I’m not happy with you.”_

_“What’d I do?” Dugan demands defensively._

_Bucky slants a look at him, and jerks his head at Steve. What? “Were my instructions, or they not - to the word ‘not to let him get shot in motherfucking arm again.’_

_“Ah, yeah. That part. I did get your waste of paper ringing me out. What’s a guy to do when that smuck goes out after hours and throws himself in a car chase of epic proportions? Nothin’, that’s what - ain’t no one able to chase him down.”_

_“Unacceptable excuse.”_

_“Oh, screw off. Go back to the communists, I’ve changed my mind, we don’t want you here anymore.”_

_Bucky pretends to sneer at him as Steve grins; tacking on, “Speak for yourself.” He steps forward, careful not too touch too much - just a quick squeeze of the arm. “Welcome back - or just welcome I guess. Welcome to the new HQ.”_

_“Looks pretty shiffing, I gotta’ admit.” Bucky replies, looking around and bouncing on his feet in a little flex. Steve cocks his head, curious - and then….and then Bucky’s hugging him hello._

_This is - this is the first hug Bucky’s initiated since - since Krausberg. Oh - oh wow. Okay._

_“Hey.” Bucky says over his shoulder, giving him a brief squeeze. “It’s good to see you, Mush.”_

_A huff of laughter puffs out with the nickname, then Steve has to take a moment to live in it, squeezing back. Bucky doesn’t like to be touched - but Bucky is touching him by choice. This is big. “You too, Mowgli. You er - you look good.” He says as he releases, hand laid on his shoulder._

_He just _ ** _ **hugged** _ ** _ Steve. _

_“I’m feelin’ good.”_

_“Yeah?” Steve asks, clasping both his hands on Bucky’s upper arms now. His friend nods, _ ** _ **still smiling** _ ** _. “That’s great to hear, pal.”_

_And then Bucky’s stepping aside to make room for Dernier to swing himself in for a greeting, finishing up with Gabe beside him. Morita sneaks one in from Bucky from the side but in view so he can dodge if he wants. He doesn’t. “For the fact that we’re the ones who have been living in mud while you smucks were living it up in the Ritz with proper showers,” Bucky notes, “- how is it that you_ ** _ ** still ** _ ** _reek.”_

The only downside to his expedition that Steve notes is he’s lost a little of the weight he gained and is starting to run a colder again, and so Steve has been pushing second portions on them both since they’ve been back. Neither are complaining, and anytime Bucky isn’t eating he’s murmuring and practicing the Russian he learnt while away. Steve’s super proud of his Sergeant for that, as it can only help when they return - until Dernier happens to mention that the majority is insults. Steve now knows how to say ‘forked vagina’ in Russian - which is not something he needs in his memory banks.

“At least one of you is catching some shut eye.” He comments.

“Nothing wrong with a good old bit of beauty sleep.” Jones returns, “you know how our beloved Frenchie likes his naps. How can we help you, Cap?”

“You guys staying in here for the evening?” It’s not a out of field question; since Bucky and Dernier returned a few weeks ago the boys have taken some nights out on the town with the freedom when free of air-raids. Steve accompanies them to most; drinking beer that never clouds his judgement. They went out again when they returned from Italy too; though Steve had skipped out on that one; his thoughts clinging onto a fiery figure over his shoulder and the penance he was still avoiding. Turns out Bucky had waved off too; citing tiredness, but then he’d come to Steve’s room after he’d sussed he was also avoiding large company. Steve’d spent the late evening shootin’ the shit with him, chatting about all sorts, his legs stretched out from the head of the bed and Bucky cross-legged on the end; tossing a baseball Steve won from Dugan between them.

Steve had mentioned he’d written to Bertie, and Bucky had intoned he’d done the same with Bertie’s sister Courtney. The two of them always had a relationship Steve could never quite quantify.

_“Don’t know it’ll get to her, mind.” He’d said. “I guessed the address - her parent’s one back in Washington. She only wrote me from there once after pa died - so I couldn’t remember it. We’ll see.”_

_“Do you know what she’s doing…if she’s--”_

_“Even doing something?” Bucky intoned, slanting a look at him. “You have far less faith in her than you should, pal.”_

_Courtney had always been one who came from money and was happy to stay in money. Steve’s always honestly taken her at face value as he’d never really seen anything else from her. Courtney liked what she liked; namely expensive things, though she was always kind to him even if they’d never been close. Bucky had been different, but everyone has always loved Bucky._

_“Maybe.” He considered. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve always just taken her for how I saw her. Not the type to--never mind.” He decides, not wanting to sour the conversation in this unfair way. “I guess a lot of people have changed their attitudes since the war started and their families shipped out.” Steve allows, though he still doubts. They’d have to see what she replied, if she ever did._

_Bucky pulls a face at him, almost in disagreement. He then also notes, almost peevishly, that it’s not the worst thing in the world if Steve’s right and she’s stayed in her lane._

_He holds his hands up in acquiescence, knowing Bucky’s always been weirdly protective. Like Steve said - in-quantifiable._

_ She’d never accompanied Steve or Bertie to any rallies; in fact the only time they’d had a real conversation was when they’d come back with Bert limping on Steve’s shoulder after the crowd got shoved backwards and he’d ended up getting trampled for a moment before Steve could get to him._

_\---------------------------------------------_

_“Oh dammit!” She’d sworn on their entry with to the door of the siblings’ condo they’d run off to with their first breadth of freedom, Steve under Bertie’s armpit. Isabelle had been with her as she often was. “Really? That limp better be gone by Saturday.” She’d warned._

_“Why?” Bertie had shot up in a panic; “are mother and--” _

_“They’re not coming, calm down.” Bertie loses the tension. He’d probably already been planning on throwing Steve out the door with half his rally mementos to hide or burn. Dispose of the evidence indeed. Steve merely looks away from the conversation, smiling shyly at Isabelle who gives him a wave from the couch; surrounded by history papers of some kind. “But if that limp is still there on the weekend then Bucky will know.”_

_Steve turns to frown at her at the sound of his best friend’s name; who has only met them a month past. Bertie asks before Steve could: “Will know what?”_

_Isabelle rolls her eyes. “He made a bet with her that you’d come back smacked around after a rally because Steve started a fight.”_

_“I did not start a fight!” Steve retorts in slight outrage._

_“He didn’t start anything - the cops did.” His friend defends. Steve snipes ‘thank you’ while lowering him onto a dining chair. _

_Courtney rolls her eyes skyward, “_ ** _ **of course** _ ** _ they did. Why do you even do this stuff if it could get you hurt, Bert? Seriously.”_

_“Because it’s the right thing to do.” He suggests sarcastically. “It’s a thing called equality of the masses. I’m not having another conversation only so you can ignore my perfectly put together, well-researched, and undeniable arguments another time.”_

_“They’re not put-together arguments when you’re ranting at me.” Courtney cuts in stubbornly._

_“Because you won’t listen.” Bertie hisses, in pain and in a small mood. “Steve didn’t start anything; and there wasn’t a fight. I just tripped.”_

_“So she can keep her money.” Isabelle says, turning to look at her. ”See, you’re fine.”_

_“Exactly.” Steve says, “and screw Bucky for making that bet.” _

_Bertie side-eyes him. “Would he believe you if you told him you didn’t?”_

_Steve pulls a face. “Probably not.” He admits._

_Bertie turns back to the girls, suddenly inspired. “Izzy, how much money did she bet?”_

_“She tried to bet twenty,” Steve chokes on air at the number said aloud, “but he said he didn’t have that if he lost. So they settled on ten.”_

_“_ ** _ **Ten? Ten!** _ ** _ Just cause it’s half still doesn’t mean that’s any better.” He almost explodes. “He doesn’t have ten to just be throwing around! The shithe--jerk,” he corrects himself in front of the ladies, even though most of the expletive is already out. “He wouldn’t dare.”_

_Isabelle shrugs at him. “Guess he was sure he’d win.”_

_“That doesn’t--” _

_Steve is going to _ ** _ **kill him.** _ **

_“Ten bucks?” Bertie questions again._

_“Ten _ ** _ **do-ll-ars** _ ** _.” Courtney pronounces the correction pointedly._

_Bertie ignores her and turns to Steve. “Tell him you started a fight.”_

_“Bertie!” Courtney shouts, aghast. Isabelle cites a ‘serves you right’._

_“I don’t wanna’ prove him right! It’s the principle of the thing!” Steve argues._

_“How about the principle of money?” Bertie retorts. “You wanna make ten magical dollars for one lie he’s not gonna’ call you on? She deserves to loose it honestly.”_

_Steve considers it a moment, and pats Bertie on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry I got you punched Bert. It will probably happen again.”_

_“Steven!” Courtney yells as he waves goodbye and Bertie yells at him to stop punching capitalists._

_Steve calls behind his shoulder: “Honestly, you start a riot one time and it follows you around for life!”_

_ Bertie snorts loudly as the door closes._

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------_

_“Been up to anything else while I’ve been away you haven’t already blabbed to me about?” Bucky had asked after talking about all the fish he’d eaten across the continent. “Aside from;” he gestures at Steve’s bible on the side table._

_“Aside from what?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow at him._

_“Your bookmark has moved.” Bucky notes, which weirdly clues Steve in on how closely Bucky actually has an eye on him to have noticed that. Kindred spirits indeed. “So I know you’ve probably been rubbing it raw over something.” He nudged Steve’s leg with a toe at that; untangling his feet just to do it. He tosses the ball over the space and Steve catches it. “You okay?”_

_Steve nods, “course - I er, I had a few nasty nightmares; probably cause’ we’ve finally slowed down for a bit.”_

_“Getting their dues in now, huh?” Bucky commiserates with a apologetic smile as he catches the ball. He rolls it between his hands, looking down; seems to force the words out even probably knowing what Steve’s response will be. “You wanna’ talk about it?”_

_Steve does not disappoint with the expected. Raising an eyebrow he asks: “Will you talk about yours if I do?”_

_“Probably not.” Bucky retorts without a beat. _

_Steve huffs, and motions for him to toss the ball again. He catches it. “At least I got a ‘probably’ in there. Not a flat out no. I count that as improvement.” He decides, and pokes Bucky himself with his foot. He over-judges his strength a little, and Bucky rocks back and forward a moment to keep his balance. He throws again so Bucky can catch._

_Bucky rolls his eyes, “I’m sure you do. Didn’t answer my question though, did you? Just cause I don’t wanna’ talk doesn’t mean you have to stick to the same party line.”_

_“You _ ** _ **can** _ ** _ talk to me you--”_

_“--_ ** _ **Steve** _ ** _.” He catches the ball Bucky’s just thrown at him with a little more force than the gentle toss they’ve been using. “Please. Just knock it off.”_

_The mood stays level thankfully, so Steve shakes it off once again. “Thanks, but I am actually good.” This conflict is not something to be shared, he feels like; this is something he has to define on his own, just as Bucky made his own conclusion and choice when they were fifteen. “I’ve been reading to help, but it’s all covered. I’m as golden as a goose.”_

_Bucky huffs, catching another toss. “And Carter? You two good? Jones mentioned the blow out, and you, good fellow, did not clue me in on the details. Geez Steve.”_

_Steve cringes a little, remembering, and then grimaces. “I told you I flipped my lid and kept on flipping.” He reminds, “Yeah, we are - we cleared it up. It was a, Er, difference of opinion and--ideologies.”_

_Bucky raises an eyebrow.” Oh? I thought you two were two peas in a pod.”_

_“Not peas - more - a very complicated jigsaw.”_

_“That’s a terrible analogy.”_

_Steve ignores him. “It surprised me; hearing her suggest something so easily. The others did too but--it was her I pushed at, then the stress after we lost all that intel didn’t help - I got a bit Bucky-paranoid.”_

_He throws the ball at Steve. “Bucky-paranoid is perfectly acceptable paranoia, so knock that off right now too.”_

_Steve throws the ball back.” I think we both just triggered on each others nerves in the end.” He says, but confides: “ We seemed to figure it out after…considering…”_

_“Considering what?” Bucky asks, catching before he looks up. It’s his growing smirk that tells Steve he must be blushing. After a lot of teasing; and a tiny bit of blackmail, he tells him and afterwards Bucky retorts that it’s his own fault for giving up the condom packet Bucky’d donated in their trading war. Steve throws a pillow at him. Then they’d carried on with the game of catch until long past midnight._

Jones nods the affirmative to the question of their stay indoors tonight. “You mind keeping this in here with you,” he requests regarding the files in his hand. “I’m halfway through working through them - I’d rather not leave them in my room. Security and all that in case someone comes looking for me.”

“Sure thing.” Jones says, holding out his hand. “You want us to see if we can crack any in the meantime?”

“Can if you want to - but there’s no big push for the moment. Thanks guys.”

“You off somewhere?” Bucky asks.

Steve hums, “There’s a service at St Patrick’s in Soho starting in forty-five - thought I might head there.”

He hasn’t been back to St James since he stormed out when he’d - probably wrongly - demanded a different penance. _That’s not how it works,_ his ma’s voice had said to him that very night - so he’d regretted the tone used but not the nature of the motivation. He still hasn’t prayed that penance away, continues to refuse to out of principle. Now he just avoids that priest by going to a smaller Church in another area.

“I’ll miss dinner, so I’m gonna’ catch something on the way back.” Steve continues, then pauses. He asks: “Do you…do you want come?”

“To the service? Or the meal?” Bucky queries.

“Both? Kind of a two for deal.”

“Would you like me to go?”

Steve rolls his eyes, “I’d like for you to make your own decisions not based on mine, you tool.”

Bucky takes a moment to think. “I’m um…I’m okay.”

Steve nods, expecting that answer. There’s always thought in asking. “No worries, I’ll see you lot after.”

“Sure thing. See you Rodgers.” Jones says.

“Don’t waste your time praying for my soul!” Bucky calls.

“Wouldn’t do any good if I did!” Steve calls back over his shoulder; while knowing, yes he will. He’ll pray for him, Steve can predict, but he won’t do his friend’s prayers _for_ him to compensate for his lack of. He used to do it when they were young, mainly in that first year when he was worried and at first frustrated at Bucky’s feigned ignorance of the whole thing.

He closes the door and heads down the stacked corridor, turning this way and that to leave from the bank’s exit out the front before it closes. He catches sight of Howard’s head as he rounds the corner towards the vault door, passing him. He flashes Steve a brief fast-moving smile.

Steve blinks, comes to a halt and grabs the man just past his right-side before he can go any further. “Whoa, whoa. Hold on - Howard!” He forces the man to face him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

His right eye, cheekbone and jaw are black and blue - clearly having taken the brunt of numerous heavy hits, and his nose bridge is clustered with brown speckled bruises too. One of the blood vessels in his right eye looks like its burst from a few red veins in the white of his eye that Steve can see. _What the hell?_

“I um,” he clears his throat. “I ran into the wrong side of a lucky lady’s father. He did not appreciate where my hands were - clearly - but all’s fair in love and war in the hunt to slip under his daughter’s skirt-tails.”

Steve might be a terrible liar himself - but he sure as hell can spot a bold-faced lie when he sees one, and he can hear the jump of his heart for good measure.

“You’ve been gone for a near a month with no word - and then when you come back you’re battered and bruised to all hell, Howard - not the normal for the guy who usually travels with an entourage.” Steve raises an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, my friend! Nothing!” His friend exclaims with a smile that Steve can tell aches him from the ever so strained quality at the edges. “It’s as I said - I merely picked the wrong woman on an unlucky night.”

_Somehow, I don’t believe you. _There’s lots of things about Howard that can be called a bluff; it’s half his personality; long winded, pompous and confident - but this is different.

“Okay fine, say that it is.” Steve says, which portrays quite clearly to Howard that Steve is_ not buying it. _“Where did you have to go off to in such a hurry?”

“A personal matter--”

“Howard--”

“God’s sake Rodgers - “ Howard says, but he’s still doing it with a laugh, “not everything is a big mystery for you to get to the bottom of! If you must know I needed to check something at Stark Enterprises, that’s all. I took a night or two on the town while in-between meetings.”

“I’m not interrogating you Howard--” Steve reassures, “or I’m not trying to. I only--”

“The SSR isn’t the only project I’m involved in.” Howard cuts in to say, “I have responsibilities there that do not involve you or even Philips - so I was sorting them out. Now will you let me pass, some of us have work to do.”

Steve releases his arm. _Not the only project huh?_ Steve recalls Howard’s fidgeting from last month - how he spoke vaguely of needing a break from some scientific failures. Steve had assumed it was Hydra tech; perhaps not. “Alright. He says. “But Howard, remember what we talked about before - if there’s anyway I can help - I will.”

Howard, half a step away from him, turns back and nods a vague sighed acquiescence at him with a wave.

“You’ll have to tell me the name of this dame too,” Steve adds, “so I know to keep my boys away; save them any black eyes too.”

“They’d have to cross the sea for her, so good luck to them on that front.” Howard’s heart kicks up a notch on the ‘sea’. That was a lie too.

. . .

Halfway to Soho, Steve’s mind still on Howard, he catches the _thud thud _of someone running behind him in the evening crowd. He turns right as Bucky’s hand lands on his shoulder, breath just slightly faltered from running.

“Oh thank god, there you are. I forgot the way to Soho, ha, gave a wild guess on the direction.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Steve’s mind immediately goes to the worst---”Do they need me back? Emergency meeting--”

Bucky shakes his head, “no, nah - I changed my mind. Figured I might as well see if the fuss is anymore influential in a British accent, and all that jazz.”

Steve blinks, “Really?”

“Yeah - am I welcome?”

About to say _of course_, instead Steve rolls his eyes. “Not with that collar you’re not.” He replies, and tugs on rumpled collar of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it as best he can. There’s not much to do - his green undershirt is creased even worse. “You didn’t even change - or did you forget about the thing called Sunday Best?”

“It’s not Sunday.”

“Always so particular.” Steve mutters; tugging again. That’s as straight as he’s gonna get it. “That’ll have to do. Come on then you heathen, lets go practice your Latin.”

. . .

“I feel like I’m killing myself until I become cold and dead, pushing further with each life I take. I can feel myself getting harder. I don’t think it’s a good thing - but it’s also something I don’t think I can control.” Steve admits in Confession as Bucky sits on a pew waiting for him across the Church.

He’d told him he’d make it quick, as he’d confessed just weeks ago, but Bucky had snorted and said, ‘can’t rush God man, take your time.’

“Is this the first time you have confessed this, my son?”

“Yes and no.” Steve answers, even though it is a yes and he’s served assigned penance for it. It doesn’t feel like it’s been served, part of him supposes, but it’s something he definitely feels the need to talk through further. He feels so much more now, since the serum. He adds a confession for taking the Lord’s name in vain, more than once, just for something else - so he can have a moment longer in the box. There’s people waiting outside, and he feels like he’s taking up their time even though he shouldn’t. He says his Acts, and then his _Our Father_; and leaves with as little peace as he entered with.

Jesus Christ died for many reasons, but the most important part Steve has always remembered; always taken to heart is that he didn’t die only to give mankind peace and a purpose in life._ He also died to save us from the wrath of God. _

Christ’s Crucifixion was nearly two thousand years ago, but maybe - maybe there was, instead; a point system as his best friend has always referred to it as; and the world has run out of points or come to the end of the dial? They’ve used up all of Christ’s sacrifice, and are now paying the price. Maybe this war is God’s wrath, but then; what was the First War for? Or the wars fought in Ireland, and the Civil War, and the European Wars and the Crusades and the - well, the everything?

There have always been wars - and has God ever intervened?

It’s the first time he’s not found peace with the Almighty, and he feels almost devoid of feeling regarding that revelation. He walks out of the box, and Bucky’s sat with his hands in his pockets, tapping his feet against the floor and studiously ignoring the gaze of several women from the church choir. As he looks at him Steve realizes he found more peace with the enlightening, if morbid, conversation he had with his friend in Belgium than he has both times he Confessed. _Huh._

Maybe war is just a part of human kind, and there’s nothing to do _but fight_. All his life has been a struggle and so he’s always been fighting in some way or another - now it’s simply that he has a real enemy to fight instead of his own flesh. 

“Ready to go?”

“Yep.” Steve says, and swings an arm over his shoulder to lead him out. It brings great enjoyment being able to do this, instead of the other way round. “Let’s go get some grub.”

. . .

When Steve dreams this night, he dreams of Peggy.

It’s not a nightmare with a firing line or about his guilt or anything of the sort - in this there is no kind of sinful guilt - just pleasure.

_Slowly, Peggy turns from the door and joins his memory of them together in his military quarters - the door jammed with a chair. He hadn’t started out the evening with any other plans other than maintaining the course, ignoring or perhaps teasing the blooming change between them - or at least to be an ear for her as she has been for him many times - but here they are._

_Steve, for all his ache for her, is not surprised that she has chosen herself to lead their second encounter - just as she did the first - as though Steve’s respectful pushing against her defenses has finally broken through. The almost passion of their argument has brought another layer to it too, it seems. As a relentless barrage of pleasure and ache; it isn’t hard to fall for the assault, to let go of the protests and acknowledge what’s been apparent for him at least, since day one. In fact, it’s the easiest thing in the world._

_She steps within a hand’s reach, shedding her jacket and tie, just at the threshold of touching him. He lets her know, instinctively, that he will do _ _anything she asks, absolutely anything. He can tell this type of power over him is something she finds exhilarating. _

_She waits before him as he sheds the loose over-shirt he’s wearing, jacket off and tie trailing from one hand. From her unbuttoned blouse he can see the very edge of her slip. She instructs: “Take off everything else, if you please.”_

_Steve releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding at the command - it’s like a flurry; how quickly he divests his shirt, the under-vest and trousers, stumbling as he does so. She stops him with a raised had once he’s removed his vest and remains in only the lower half of his skivvies and socks - skivvies that do not disguise a thing - taking him in. She looks amused, among other things; as she looks at him._

_“Somehow,” she comments, “you’ve managed to gain even more muscle than the last time I saw you divested of clothes.” She then adds mildly, “And people say you can’t improve perfection.”_

_Steve laughs, blushing with a half-scandalized “Peggy!” Her painted lips curl into even more of a smile. She still waits at a distance, framed by the doors edge; teasing. They both know what will happen if she touches him. They both have heard the stories about the power in that first touch, a quiet thirst that can’t be quenched until there is_ _ _ ** _ **completion.** _ **

_“You said everything else.” Steve reminds her, “this isn’t everything.”_

_“It is for now. But yes, I did say that.” She considers, and steps closer. Peggy reaches out to touch him, her palm gently cupping the smooth angle of a shaven jaw - and that first touch is _ ** **electric** ** _ \- sheer poker red-hot; right the way down his spine. _

_Peggy’s hand trails behind and pulls, just a little, on the hair at the nape of his neck. “Now take everything else _ ** _ **off me.** _ ** _”_

_Steve breaks, lost in the overwhelming current, lips crashing into hers, hot slick and demanding; lost and drunk in the onslaught of sensations. The moment is charged with excitement, a reckless clash of his desperation and hers and coming together as one. He laughs into her lips; unbuttoning the last of her blouse and then starting on the button and zip of her brown skirt until she’s standing in her silk slip and stockings beneath. She runs her hands all over him, reveling in the feel of finally being able to touch him as he is her. His hands themselves, around her waist, bunch up the fabric as he pulls it up almost possessively - greedy in his exploration. (He wasn’t like this with Josie.)_

_One way or another, maybe they both always knew it would come to this when he returned to the SSR - it was only a matter of time. Maybe that’s why she’d resisted so hard, because the inevitability meant she had no control, and Peggy has always prided herself on control._

_His body feels raw with emotion, with need, and ---_

_She’s standing in front of him in nothing but her brasserie, thin cotton shorts and her girdle. His hand migrates down to cup at her breasts through it. He whispers, without meaning to, “Jesus Christ.”_

_“Now now,” she murmurs into his ear as she moves away from a kiss, “don’t take the Lords name in vain, Mr choir boy.”_

_She unclips her own girdle hooks, and threads her stockings off to expose her thighs and legs, slowly and - she’s such a fucking damn tease. _

_He kisses her again, “I can’t tell if you bringing God into this is making it better or worse.” _

_She laughs again, kissing at the corner of his mouth, and makes a point of smearing her lipstick against his jaw._

_“_ _ Peggy. _ _” He hisses as she does it_ _ again _ _. “That is_ _ not fair _ _.”_

_“What are you going to do about it then?”_

_He sheds her girdle, and hikes her up in his arms as a response - carrying her over to the bed properly._

_“Ah,” she decides as he plops her on the bed and kisses her again, “yes, that’ll do.” _

_She pulls him down and switches their positions; so they’re still sat up; but if she pushes Steve’ll be the one beneath. Unlike what Steve expected; she’s not in the panties that end well above the knee in a slender lace cut. These are all the things he’s seen most girls wear, or situated in Gimbles. Josie wore them; a smoky laced number; and Courtney and Isabelle were sometimes known to inadvertently shed more of their clothes with the rate of their alcohol consumption at home-parties until Bertie and Steve had to awkwardly intervene and stop them. So Steve’s seen more than he probably should have; Courtney’s were always expensive silk - and the once or twice he saw the edges underneath Isabelle’s slip the undergarments were always mismatched with a careless nature. Peggy’s wearing thin cotton high-waisted bloomers; buttoned above the hip and finishing halfways down the thigh - loose and easy to move in. Her brassiere is apricot, like the unbruised fruit he ate in Czechoslovakia for the first time. She tastes just as sweet._

_He slips his hand behind her; teases the tips of his fingers on the brassier clips - kissing his way down and across the swell of her breasts. She tips her head back and breathes out, shallow, and her hand moves and clasps the firm swell of his groin. He sucks in a breath. She grins as he freezes, looking down through her eyelashes and tips her back down to kiss him slow and deep._

_“I may not know much about God and religion,” she says to Steve’s groan, “but I’ve heard the saying that He’s always watching. So let’s give him a show.”_

_“Best theatre he’s ever seen.” Steve replies; and she squeezes. “O--go-d--”_

He wakes sharply as the room goes from dark to light as the bulbs burst orange with light. He rolls over on the bed to look at the empty space Peggy had fallen asleep in a few weeks ago. Someone knocks on his door.

“Cap, you awake?”

It’s Dugan’s voice so he calls the affirmative, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Alright man,” he greets to Steve’s nod, and notes, “you slept longer than you usually do - you’re normally an early rinky-dink.”

“Apparently so.” He grunts, “everything okay?”

“Yeah yeah, just thought I’d give you the heads up - Philips and Saunders called an stupidly early meeting before they go off to wherever the hell they’re going.”

“I thought the meeting wasn’t until nine.”

“They moved it up - five minutes ago - to start in ten. Three hours early - hence the manual light switch. Pre-warning - he’s in a terrible mood.”

Steve huffs, though that doesn’t say much about Philips’ day to day since the attempted heist and the latest discovery of the Hydra exoskeletons. He’s in fact finding himself to quite enjoy Phillips’ mercurial moods. “Okay, great. Be there in a minute.”

Dugan clears his throat, and when Steve looks at him;he’s restraining a laugh.

“What?”

“Weren’t happening to be dreaming about Carter, were you?”

Steve barely holds back a jolt; surprised and a little affronted. “Why would you say that?”

“You er,” Dugan clears this throat again and cants his head down at Steve’s lower half. “Might have some wood you might need to deal with before Philips sees ya, Cap.”

Steve glances down and jerks his knee and blanket up to cover it. “Oh geez!” He clears his throat awkwardly now, shoving down the redness that wants to bloom. Dugan’s shit-eating grin is not helping. “This goes no further.” He orders, “Doesn’t leave this room.”

“Uh-huh.” Dugan motions, backing up to the door with a stare Steve knows not to trust.

“I mean it Dum Dum! Or I’ll--”

The door shuts to Dugan’s booming laugh - Steve sinks back into the headboard, sighing. He looks down, lips his blanket and pillow shield up to see.

“Okay then.” He says to himself.

. . .

_ BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, MAY 6 _ _ TH _

_This is London calling, the European news service of the British Broadcasting Corporation. [STATIC]. Here is the news. Before we begin, please listen to some personal messages. The elephant broke a defense. I repeat. The elephant broke a defense. It is time to pick tomatoes. I love Siamese cats._

_Nick Paulson reporting….._

. . .

He was right in thinking Philips’ main reason of calling them in early is to iterate all the new rules to compound security while he’s - or Saunders is not there to monitor it.

“Not even a memo leaves this place.” Philips orders, though at least this time he’s not stood on the table shouting it at full volume.

“And every approved transfer moves with no less than three people, we know.” Morita mutters beside him, who is not a morning person, but also not quiet enough - as Philips without a second thought throws at book at his head. “Ah-ow!”

“Colonel!” Saunders admonishes, though there’s not much he can do about it.

“Tu méritais celle-là.” (“**You deserved that one.**”) Dernier murmurs in his ear.

“I’m just saying - he’s already been over this a hund--”

“Jim.” Steve orders out of the side of his mouth, “shut up or he’ll throw another one at you.” He recognizes the flare in Philips’ eyes for what it is as the man sees the ongoing conversation in their corner. “That’s enough.”

Both SSR main commanders are off, so while they’re away their second-in-command Lieutenants are in charge. They warn Steve there’s still no new intel for the new base - and to hold off until it comes in. They may be held off for a while - months even - unless they leave by the end of the week - as Steve knows they have to be here, or on call, for the long- awaited D-Day. The Army wants them on the beachfront - the clocks are counting down to June.

. . .

In the morning, after Peggy had soothed him back to his quarters; they’d laid in bed against each other - and asked curious questions about one another. It was a very good strategy of distracting him for fiery figures. She has his arm hooked in hers like she’s walking him home or vice-sera, just laid on the cot instead. She’s had hold of his hand since physically removing his nails away from the perceived handprint on his forearm..

“When was your first kiss?” Peggy asks him.

A surprised smiles blurts from his lips at the ceiling, “that was not a question I was expecting from you.” He comments, and he feels her shrug into his shoulder.

“Not Private Lorraine, I should hope.”

“Not jealous, I should hope.” He counters slyly. She’s dressed again, but he’s still half not. She whacks his bare shoulder with the back of her hand without deigning him with a look.

“Don’t you push it now.” She warns, and he laughs.

“No,” he promises, “she wasn’t my first. She was - well - my third. As in third kiss of all my kisses, not third dam--women.”

“You can call us dames if you want Steve.” Peggy comments amused. “Only three? In your whole life before me?”

He cants his head up to look at her. “How many do you have?”

“I’ve kissed three _people_; those I was going steady with - but kissed them multiple times. I’ve - been kissed by more - but that’s more complicated. I was fifteen. Lucas Robinson, he lived three doors down the lane from me. We did it behind my house when he dropped me off after a date, and then my father interrupted us - he was a curtain twitcher.” She rolls her eyes, and Steve can imagine it. “I was told to go to bed quite sternly while he stared Lucas off his property. I’ve never actually slept with anyone.”

“You haven’t?”

She hums a ‘no’, shaking her head. He forgets she’s only twenty two sometimes, she’s so mature. He’s - he doesn’t know how to feel about that - so sure that she had men like Bucky in her history - and there was her fiance too…

“My mother was very particular about waiting about marriage - so I always pledged to that even if I didn’t to the rest of her wishes.” She tells him. “Respect I suppose - for her, and for myself. It’s fun to have fun, though. We have to in these circumstances I think - and - I don’t think I was waiting until marriage - more until I found the right person.”

“Like my dancing?”

“Like your dancing.” She agrees, “I want it to be special, I should think. It is not something you just let wash away for timings sake.”

“I understand that.” Steve says, “I hadn’t - until November last year, before I saw you again in Italy. A..friend of mine decided she wanted to help my confidence. I let her - and I don’t regret it or that she was the one I did it with. She made sure it was special for me.”

“I had wondered - when you mentioned our conversation in the taxi was the longest one you’d ever had with a woman - if you had.”

He hums back at her. “I hadn’t back then, but…Now I know what I’m doing, so I can make it special for..someone else.” He nudges her, “if we ever - you know---”

“We probably will.” Peggy hints out of the side of her mouth, trailing her hand over his side. Steve remembers: _Soon - I want to. But if I do it before marriage - that means I’m going to hell? I mean,_**_** come on**_**_. Kissing’s fucking swell Steve, you’ll know when you finally get round to it - so can it be so bad?------I think that’s kind of the point of temptation, pal. It’s supposed to feel good. _

Peggy interrupts the memory - “You never answered my question.”

“Trying to distract me again?”

“I can see you thinking.” She comments mildly, “thinking too much.”

“You’re too observant for your own good, you know that?”

“Yes.” She just comments, so he laughs.

“I was…. Maybe twenty, I think. I was drunk - during a game of spin the bottle.”

Peggy sits up, turning so she’s resting on one elbow. She looks amused and curious. “Really? That was your first one.”

“Girls didn’t like me so much then,” he admits, a little self-conscious, but it’s the truth. “So I got round to it a lot later.”

“I’m not judging,” Peggy says quickly, “not at all, just…surprised -,” _why, _he almost says_, until you, noone looked at me as though I was worth a minute of their time, let alone an hour, especially in that way_\---”more that it was a game of all things.” Peggy adds before he can spiral into those thoughts. “Is that a normal game, in America?”

“I suppose it is.” Steve replies, letting his put-upon confidence return. “There was five of us there - two dames,” he winks at her, “and us three guys. Me, Bucky and my friend Bertie. The only standing rule was that Bertie was not allowed to kiss Courtney and vice-versa, being brother and sister and all.”

“A very good rule.”

“Yep. Though that typically just meant he ended up snogging Izzy a lot - and Bucky both of them - because he’s too damn lucky for his own---”

“Steve.”

“Yes?”

“I asked about you. Not Bucky.”

“Oh.” Steve remembers, “right. Sorry.” It’s hard to separate the two of them sometimes - since they’ve been doing near everything together since the age of ten. “It was Izzy - who landed on me. She was a history major.”

“Smart then?”

“Very. She’s a great writer - I mean - really good. Really articulate; always used to help everyone with their essays. Like a walking thesaurus, she was. It was nice, a bit sloppy,” he laughs, “- but yeah, she was my first one, I think.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

“You’re not sure?”

Steve shrugs, “I said I was drinking, didn’t I?”

“Yes. I suppose you did.”

_. . ._

> ** _ **THE MINISTRY OF AMERICAN INFORMATION PRESENTS…** _ **
> 
> ** _CAPTAIN AMERICA_ _AND THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM!_ **
> 
> _This film was produced by the ARMY PICTORIAL SERVICE._
> 
> _\--------------_
> 
> _Come on, movie goers of America! US War Savings stamps and bonds on sale here! (poster?) On your way out BUY YOUR REGULAR SUPPLY OF WAR STAMPS AND BONDS._
> 
> _\--------------_
> 
> _NARRATOR: Deep in the roots of the American character is independent pioneering; the spirit that takes in hardship and danger to become stronger. It is a natural inheritance._
> 
> _Captain America is one of many such brave men on the front with our fathers, brothers and sons - and he and his ‘Howling Commandos’ need your help! Yes, your help!_
> 
> _“Give us the tools we need, and we’ll do the job.” says James Montgomery Falsworth._
> 
> _NARRATOR: And boy will they do their job! Coming soon we bring you exclusive footage of our brave boys as they destroy and topple the Nazi agenda - we are in this war now. We are still in it all the way. Keep your eyes peeled for CAPTAIN AMERICA I in theaters soon!_
> 
> _We leave you now with some words by THE MAN HIMSELF: _ “_A Single individual who has the Right Heart and the Right Mind; that is consumed with a single purpose…that one man can win a war. Give that one man a group of soldiers with the same conviction, and you can change the world. We can do this together.”_
> 
> _[REEL ENDS]_

“Well that was rather underwhelming.” Bucky mutters as they leave the viewing room. The wartime advert is being sent out to all the American cinemas in the morning. Steve snorts.

“They’re saving all the big belly action for the films of course,” Dugan says, “- that was more - a tease to come.”

“That,” Bucky emphasizes, “was just that big lug sat in front of a bombed tank and talking about ‘patriotism and supporting the troops for the good of mankind.”

“You’re very talkative today, what’s wrong with you?” Morita cuts in. Bucky ignores him aside from allowing Dugan to smack Jim as his defense.

“Oh please.” Jones says, “like you’re no less a patriot, Sarge.” He scoffs afterwards, because he does have a point - Bucky is just as patriotic ; especially because of his father - just in a quieter way.

Bucky basically confirms this as he says, “I don’t blab blab blab about it everyday like this one.” He elbows Steve in the side.

“I have to say,” Steve notes, “I was very impressed how you managed to duck the camera in nearly every single shot. It’s quite a talent to behold.”

“Or his other talent,” Dugan cuts in, grinning, “of giving the finger in nearly every shot he couldn’t avoid so Fletcher couldn’t use them.” He laughs, and turns to Bucky. “He was ranting and raving all over the place to Jones and me when you were gone. Considering how many shots he had to cut down when he actually added it all up. He was not a happy trooper.”

Bucky hums, and turns to Steve to say instead. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Steve huffs, chuckling as a response. Honestly. “The pro of being a sniper - you get to avoid the camera man in all the action reels.”

“Oh he’s got you in a few,” Jones says, “and he’s making a point of using all of them out of spite.”

“Uh-huh, sure he does.” Bucky says doubtfully.

“You’re not as sneaky as you think, and he’s got a lot more sneakiness in him than I think you realize. He got you, I know he does. You also have a poster.”

“I _do not._”

“You do.” Falsworth iterates outright, to Dernier’s mocking laugh, “Cap was too scared to tell you.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re too scared to tell_ me,_ and yet you’re not scared of calling my sister a bitch. I think you have your priorities flipped.”

Steve shrugs at him as a response.

Bucky sighs, “How bad is it?”

“It’s beautiful.” Jones says, “You’re the prettiest princess you ever did see.”

“Actually the final draft does not bear bunch of a resemblance.” Lieutenant D’Angelo says as he approaches them. “May I borrow you two?” He gestures to Steve and Bucky, and leads them into another room; shelved with maps and intelligence files; one of the smaller offices. “I’ve just had word - we’re going to need you to delay your next attack - Greece is it?”

“It’s undetermined as of the moment. We’re waiting for intel on several targets.” Steve says, “They can be delayed if need be - there’s no set dates for any of them.” Honestly, Greece is going to be a big one - and is already likely to be delayed if they can’t get the intel and move out in the next week. “What is it?”

“Carter requires you in Norway.”

“Carter does?” Bucky asks, glancing at Steve like he already knows he’s ready to set off _right now._

“That’s where she is, Norway?” Steve questions abruptly. “I thought she was in France? She told me she was in France.”

“Don’t take it personally.” D’Angelo says, turning to fetch a map roll from the squared shelves. “Everything needs to be compartmentalized.”

“So she lied to me.” Steve murmurs to himself. D’Angelo doesn’t hear him.

“She was sent in to recover a British Rocket Scientist - went missing three years ago. Dr. McMillion. We got intel last week of where he may be being imprisoned. I don’t know what’s changed - but she’s sent word for assistance. Why she needs you is unclear instead of someone else; no offence meant of course - it’s more that the mission is….more covert than destructive. Or - it was when she was sent out.”

“Circumstances can change real quick.” Bucky comments quietly.

“I see.” Steve says, already knowing the words he was going to say at the moment this conversation begun. “We’ll go.”

. . .

“So, France, huh?”

Peggy slants an unimpressed look at him in the doorway; “hello to you too, I hope you’ve had a peaceful journey.”

“Hello.” Steve returns cheerfully, “we travelled in on a fishing boat; and to my great surprise I didn’t need to to throw up. The same cannot be said from the rest of the boys. So Peggy, how have you been, lied to anyone else about your location lately?”

She rolls her eyes and steps out of the doorway, no longer taking him seriously. Morita snarks, “alright guys, don’t have a domestic.”

Dugan adds, “It’s normally those two crazy kids;” he motions a thumb behind him at Bucky at the back of their formation, “having a tiff.”

“You know we’re not that much younger than you, you asshole.”

“And you know,” Steve adds, “I’m already regretting bringing all of you along.”

“Yes, well,” Peggy says, “I wasn’t quite - expecting all of you - but I suppose that’ll help in the operation. Some of you I am very glad to see though.” Steve thinks she smiles briefly at Bucky. He thinks he smiles back.

“We come as a roving troop now, did you not know?” Morita says, “ever since these well-missed_ rascals_ got back.” He swings an arm around Dernier; who laughs and helps him stagger in, and Bucky dodges Dugan’s arm who tries to match him.

“Are you _drunk_?” Peggy asks.

“No.” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “he’s just been shut under a deck for too long, and woozy from throwing up half his body-weight.”

“The sea is _not_ my friend. Thank god I never joined the Navy.” Steve finds a chair for him; and orders him to sit down for a bit.

“It’s is good that you’re all here actually,” Peggy decides as they filter in,”it’ll give me more options.”

Clearly, Jones already doesn’t like the sound of that. “More options for what?”

“Just come in. Quickly. Did anyone see you?”

“Carter,” Dugan ruffs out, “I’ll have you know we are _bone-a-fide professionals_ now.”

She looks at Steve. He translates the pompous-Dum Dum-speak. “No one saw us, we slipped out across the dock as the guard was changing over.”

“Wonderful.”

“You here alone, Agent?” Falsworth asks, the second to last through the door. They’re above a cafe on the waterfront, signposted_ Lazarchick’s,_ which looks as though it’s been closed for a while; and the apartment Peggy’s been squatting in above looks the same.

She hums a confirmation; then: “Right, all of you stand in-front of me. Line up--”

“Why?”

“Just line up Falsworth.” Peggy retorts, no-nonsense.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Dugan murmurs sidelong to Steve, “what’s your girl gonna’ have us do, Cap?”

“She’s not my--”

“Yes she is.” Bucky cuts him off; making Dugan snort and Steve glare at him over the man’s head.

“Somehow I believe this idiot more than you right now, Cap.”

“So much for everlasting loyalty.” Steve whispers at him, and turns back to Peggy who looks as though she’s assessing them all; now stood in a mismatched line. “Agent what--”

“You two.” She decides, and points at Falsworth and Bucky. “and maybe you Jacques. The accent might be a problem however. With a bit of cleaning up, you need a shave,” she motions at Bucky “- but one of you should do.”

“Us two what?” Falsworth questions again, voice as bewildered as his face. “One of us should do _what?_”

Bucky decides automatic: “I’m not doing it.”

“You don’t know what _it_ is yet.” Peggy slants the exasperated look she gave Steve at him now.

“If_ you’re_ asking it doesn’t bode well, does it--”

“Bucky!” Steve orders lowly. So much for having them ’try’ and make it work, he thought they were getting somewhere with the double-act he suspected them to have.

“I’m _joking_.” Bucky replies, sidelong. “But I’m still not doing it.”

“Why don’t we start with the beginning. What’s going on Agent Carter?”

“And I repeat, us two: what?” Falsworth pushes.

Peggy gestures to a tattered table she’s using as a work desk, so they crowd round. There’s various folders laid over it - and a sheet of graph paper with a rough layout of a building compound; noted with how much security is at each entrance and exit. There’s another piece of graph paper, smaller this time; half-drawn from where Peggy must be copying it over from a scribbled layout drawn over four napkins. It looks like a restaurant - or, a bar - somewhere that opens out onto the street, large and expensive.

“Yeah, why we here?” Morita asks, swallowing, half a groan. He still looks rather green. “Cap wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details.”

“I can’t be forthcoming when I don’t have them, Jim.” Steve notes,_ again_, though more from exasperation. Exasperation; and pity; considering the man spent a good third of their last hundred nautical miles throwing up as they hid below the floorboards. They’d been flown halfway from London, then told to jump from the plane in the middle of the ocean, were picked up and then ferried into the port by a heavily bribed Norwegian crew on their return. “D’Angelo was rather stingy on the details.”

“Good.” Peggy says promptly, “he was supposed to be - I went through him because he’s MI5 as well as SSR - and this isn’t strictly a SSR assignment. It’s not Hydra.”

“Regular old Nazi’s then? Great, just as good.”

“I thought you were strictly on SSR duty.” Steve says, “I didn’t know you were still…”

“Moonlighting?” Dugan queries, giving him the word he wants when he gets stuck. He nods in confirmation.

“I’m loan to the SSR, Steve, I always have been.” Peggy explains. “That means I have extra responsibilities - and if they call - I jump and ask how high.” She stacks several files together, not meeting his eye as she orders them, tapping them against the table. “It’s how we’ve got collaboration when most Intelligence agencies are decisively _not_ collaborating or pooling their resources together. There’s three US agencies that are working practically _against _one another. It comes with a price - I’m sorry if you weren’t aware of that; I thought you were, but that’s how things go.”

_How would I know that if no one designs to mention it? If you don’t?_ The fact that she approved of D’Angelo’s compartmentalizing of the mission brief brings up another point though, _how much does the SSR know about this, if any?_ As Steve’s been learning - Great Britain’s intelligence network is extensive despite their refusal to admit it exists - and though they may be Allies; MI5’s loyalty is to it’s country, first and foremost. He wonders what would happen if British Intelligence made a call to hold back on intel if they realized it would affect their own interests; or if one of the dozen American agencies did; and that effectively left a target Steve and his team are not cleared to destroy, if they ever found out about it? What is it’s such a strong problem here as it was, and is, in the Russian branch of the SSR? Bucky spent an entire month blagging his way into convincing them to hand over what little intel they have - what if Steve should have been doing the same thing on his end too?

_What would happen then? How many dual agents are working within the SRR; just like Peggy? _

_Stop it, Steve. _He tells himself.

“Okay,” He says instead. “A nuclear scientist - I heard the name Dr McMillion - that’s all we have.”

“Correct.” Peggy confirms, “we lost him in 1937 when he was seized on holiday in Venice - charged with disturbing the peace and sale of illegal material. It’s likely those were fabricated - an excuse to get him in custody - where he promptly disappeared into the system as soon as the embassy attempted to pull him out.”

“What makes you think the charges were fabricated?” Jones asks curiously.

“He was one of our top-leading scientists on nuclear development; and he’d just made a rather large breakthrough before he was arrested. He was, I suppose, hot takings. Heavily desired.”

“What was the breakthrough?” Steve asks, already expecting ‘compartmentalization.’

“Not my department.” Peggy answers, so close enough. “His recovery is. I likely wouldn’t understand the mechanics even if I did know.”

“Even if he is guilty of the charges,” Falsworth notes, “he needs to be recovered before he builds something for them; under duress or not, and turns it on his own country. They likely already know about the breakthrough - if they’ve had him for that long.” He warns at the end.

“MI5 are aware of that. It’s more about prevention than previous breaches of intelligence. We haven’t been able to get a location on him or his movements until now - and I was free, so they sent me in.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?” Peggy looks pointedly at Morita, who holds his hands up and shakes his head.

“Hey, I’m not judging - I’m just saying--”

“If he was so important why would they only send one agent? And not a team?” Steve finishes for him, whose’s thinking’s along the same tracks.

“The majority of agents are trained to work alone. And…if you must know; feet are a little thin on the ground at the moment with D-Day coming up. Operatives are in place throughout the Continent ready for it - there’s not as many free to come and go as Antonio and I usually do.”

Steve understands that at least. “I take it you have a plan?”

“He’s being kept underground below the courthouse, and is being moved with a dozen political prisoners to an new impregnable bunker in four days. We don’t know where - and are likely to never know. This is our one window to get in - the place is crawling with security; _Wehrmacht_ and collaborative Norwegians - keys, pass-codes - the whole nine yards while they’re vulnerable. Our best way in - is through this man: Otto Baumgatner. He’s part of the _Quisling_ regime - under the Minister of police - he’s one of four who has full access to the underground installations below the building; not German; speaks English. He’s known in Oslo for late-night proclivities with strangers.”

“’e ‘ets around then.” Jacques says.

“Yes, you can say that.” Peggy says. “He’s staying at the Grand Terminus hotel; so is in public more often than others. He drinks and eats at the restaurant; four nights a week. I was going to intercept him, lead him on--” Steve frowns, automatically unconformable with the idea of another man putting his hands on her. “--lead him upstairs to his hotel room and make off with copies of his key, ID & passcodes while they’re new. They’re changed every two days. The codes are delivered to him _at the bar_ by a sealed courier.”

“Alright, and?” Jones asks.

“Well - the issue I’ve run into; and which has become rather clear since I arrived is - while the rumors of his proclivities are correct - I’m not his type.”

“What - he prefers busty blondes instead?” Dugan cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Of course. Hitler would approve.”

“If that were the problem then I’d just put on a wig and have done with it,” Peggy responds, “and you wouldn’t be here. The problem is - I don’t have the right….parts.”

“What?”

“Huh?”

“Oh.” Steve says, “_Oh._”

“Yes, oh. Normally Antonio would go in, if need be, but he is unavailable - don’t ask me where. You_ and I_, trust me, would rather not know.”

“Je suis désolé, un instant,” Dernier says. (****“I’m sorry, one moment.”****) “I do not understand.”

“He’s a homosexual, Jacques.”Jones cuts in to explain, “it means he gets off on fella’s instead of dames.”

“Oo’, al’right.” Jacques says easily, “why the tone?”

“Well cause it ain’t right, is it,” Dugan responds awkwardly, “thems the rules.”

“Where? In A-merica?” Jacques frowns.

“Everywhere man, Jesus Christ.”

“Not in-e Paris’.” Jacques shrugs, “is fine as long as is private and discreet.”

Steve blinks, surprised. “Really?”

“It’s sodomy, ain’t it--”

“We got _Débarrasser_\--rid of that law in the Revolution.” Jacques waves off. “Then ‘e Nazi’s brought it back when ‘ey took over.”

Steve is still surprised at the turn. “It’s not illegal in France? Since the _revolution_?”

Dernier shrugs at him. “is what it is.”

_No wonder Paris is known as the city of free culture and art..._

“Gentlemen--” Peggy calls to attention, “this is not a time for a debate on the merits of what should and shouldn’t be. It’s a mission - I am trying to brief you - so will you shut the bloody hell up. Please.” She adds as an afterthought.

“So we’re here to…what?”

Suddenly Steve remembers the line-up she made them do - and the picking of the best _options._

“Go in for me instead - as that avenue is no longer viable. I told you it was a favour.” Peggy explains. “I was going in as a language attaché to an ambassador - like a secretarial position - we can alter it fit a man’s position. Keep the same cover story.” She looks at Falsworth and Bucky; who happen to be standing side by side on the other side of the table to her. “He has type. Young. Brunette. Clean shaven.”

Steve thinks he realizes what she’s asking the same time Bucky does - _oh._

“You want one of us to be a honeytrap,” Bucky says, “that’s what you want.”

“Yes.” She confirms.

“Are you fucking serious?” Bucky snaps, “How far--_how far_ do you or--do expect for one of us to _go-_-”

“Not that far,” Peggy assures, reading him very obviously.

“Hold on - what are you talking--”

“A honeytrap,” Bucky explains, “is the fine art of ensnaring an enemy via sex, seduction - whatever you want to call it. She wants one of us to seduce him to extract information.”

“Hold on - _what?_” Dugan exclaims, sounding insultingly affronted on Bucky and Falsworth’s parts. “You can’t seriously mean for them to act as fairies, Carter._ Seriously-_\--”

“People are much easier to lure into a state of vulnerability that way.” She defends, “and like I said - it doesn’t have to go that far. It won’t, in fact. All you need to do is ply him with drink - he prefers martinis, straight, but with ice--”

“How do you know that?” Morita questions in bewilderment. Falsworth remains quiet.

“I’ve been passive probing him for days - he goes for an early cap before dinner; like tradition, he always has two martinis; with ice, and then switches to wine to finish with his meal; with a glass of water. You just need to keep him on the wine and not on the water.”

“Peggy this is too much--” Steve starts.

“Why? I was going to do it.”

“That’s different,” Steve continues, his voice calm. “I’m not saying it’s alright for you to do it but not one of us - it’s not alright for anyone to _have _to do that, honestly. I’m saying it because..One, yes you are a women, and so that _does_ make it different. It would be passable.” He explains, “A guy doing it; wouldn’t be accepted. It’s illegal. Two, I am not forcing one of my guys do risk themselves like that against our will. ”

“_This is our way in_.” Peggy keeps on stubbornly. “He keeps his clearance and ID chained to him at all times - and he receives new pass-codes by courier to the bar at exactly 8:25 - he burns them as soon as he commits them to memory. We need that key, clearance, and the pass-codes to get through the ciphered doors.”

“So the only way to get the pass-codes is if we distract him enough that he forgets to burn the passcodes after he’s looked at them.” Jones concludes.

“Exactly. A brush-pass won’t work.”

“What If we--”

“We kill him to take them?” Peggy predicts the thought. “They’ll know when he doesn’t turn up and check in. They’ll know when he doesn’t return to his hotel room even, they have men outside. They’ll move McMillion - and we’re done - we’ve lost the only chance we’ll have. The whole point is this theft needs to be done covertly, so as not to spook them.”

“And they won’t be suspicious if they see him feeling up another fella?” Morita cuts in, questioning.

“Exactly,” Dugan says, “_Come on,_ Carter.”

“No. Because his proclivities are evidently the worst-kept secret in this city.” Peggy cuts back - “he’s been with two that I’ve seen in the time I’ve been here - and his men are in the area, watching. They’re more than aware and they turn a blind eye.” Steve can tell she’s getting frustrated by the contradictions to her plan. “Look - this is what my expertise is - I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t have called in the back up if I could see another way - but there isn’t - not in the tiny window we have before they move McMillion. We _need_ to get him back - by order of MI5 - that’s the mission - so we are going to do what needs to be done to_ complete_ _the mission._” She looks at Bucky and Falsworth, “Well?”

Falsworth looks incredibly uncomfortable - Bucky does too. Steve steps forward. “I’ll do it, if it needs to be done.”

“Thank for that Steve,” she answers honestly, smiling at him softly. “But…you might be too recognizable--”

“--Not without the mask I’m not--”

“Even I reckon that’s too much of a risk--”Jones notes quietly.

“--Everything about this plan is a risk,” Steve counters to him, then back to Peggy, “what you’re asking them to do, in public, is dangerous, Peggy. Apparently it isn’t in France but here and everywhere else it’s illegal to be in private; let alone in public - forgetting about the apparent blind eye. If they get picked up--”

“The same thing will happen as if they got caught soldiering in another city. The only difference is the attitude attached to it. And with respect - everything you boys do is titled as dangerous - that’s practically your middle name right now.”

“Exactly, I’ll take responsibility--”

“You’re too recognizable - and _you,_ are not his type. He goes for brunettes - like those too. There’s--”

“_Peggy_.”

“Look.” She branches off, “I don’t want to be asking this as much as you don’t want to be hearing it. And I don’t want to force anyone. If it comes down to it - we’ll use you Steve - so thank you - but there’s more chance of success if it’s one of them.” She looks at Falsworth and Bucky. “The success of the mission is my priority, it has to be - not your feelings. I’m sorry - but that’s the way you have to think about it.”

“We’re all on posters and film reels…” Morita notes, possibly still looking for a way out. “So surely..?”

“Techniquement, ils n’ont pas encore été libérés.” (“****Technically they have not been released yet.****”) Dernier says quietly, then switches to accented English, “so their faces would not be known.”

“I need someone for this _one_ mission - _one_ evening.” Peggy repeats, obviously more than a little frustrated now - and her head turns at a motion - Bucky, nodding.

Steve questions quietly. “Buck..?”

“Yes?” Peggy confirms.

“I don’t like it - but if it needs to be done - fine, I’ll get him drunk.”

Dugan splutters at him, “What happened to your startin’ statement of ‘I’m not doing it,’ Buckaroo?”

“_Shut up_.” Bucky hisses at him, like he doesn’t need to be reminded.

“And the rest - you’re not seriously gonna’--”

“Dugan.” Steve warns curtly to shut his mouth; waiting for his friend and his girl square off carefully.

“He’ll cop a feel--” Peggy warns, “at the bar I mean, but get him intoxicated enough and he won’t be able to go any further - even if he wanted to - and you’ll be able to get him woozy enough to get inside intel - directions, layout, names - different personnel; all that. I’ll be on standby to guide.”

Bucky swallows and nods, but still looks nervous - and a little sick.

“Hang on,” Steve cuts in, and grabs Bucky’s arm to pull him to the side. He makes them walk all the way across the room, and then into another for privacy's, his head bent low and close. He feels like he should be telling him to suck it up and get on with it; another commander might, but instead, as he would his other guys, he says: “If you don’t want to do this - you don’t have to.”

“No, no - it’s,” he licks his lip, “it’s fine.”

“I’m serious.” Steve says, “If you don’t want to - if you’re not comfortable with this that’s okay. We’ll find another way - or I’ll go in instead, I don’t--”

“No - don’t be stupid.” Bucky interrupts, “your face is too well known now - and - like Carter said - you’re not…you’re not his type. You can pick-pocket - but you ain’t that great an actor, pal. It’s fine. I got this.”

Steve clasps his shoulder, squeezes until Bucky looks at him while taking care not to squeeze the back of his neck - which is something Bucky does _not_ like now. He raises his eyebrow, an _‘are you sure? I mean it.’_

“I got this.” Bucky repeats, more firmly this time. He shakes Steve off, leaves the room and goes back to the table. Steve follows, eyes on his back. “What’s the cover story again?”

Just like that Bucky is enlisted to go, a cover story is quietly reorganized and assembled; an air attaché to Lehnman, the ambassador of Bavaria.

He’s to enter the bar at 17:05 after finishing early, and start up a conversation. Peggy will be on call in the area - as is Falsworth whose an _observant_ and a quick getaway if needed - while the rest of them wait it out until the intel returns back. Then they’ll move in together - which is the other part Peggy wanted Steve for specifically. Steve doesn’t entirely like the idea, even if it’s far less dangerous than most of their exploits, but he can hardly tell Bucky to stand down when he’s already agreed - and it is good plan.

“Thank you, Barnes.” Peggy says after he’s been tested on the cover story thrice, “for stepping up. Though the fact that you already knew what a honeytrap was tells me you’re the right person for this.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He mutters, scratching at his head behind his ear. He steps again away so no one brushes up against the back of his neck.

Falsworth asks, “How did you know that stuff actually--”

“Royal families, especially the European women used to have them.” Steve explains when Bucky doesn’t answer. “High-born and low-born prostitutes on the pay-roll. Catherine Medici - a French Queen was known for it - they used to be called the Flying Squad - high-born ladies who’d seduce men at court to get information and pass it back to her. It was kind of prolific.”

“How do you know--”

“We like history.” Steve says, only slightly defensive. “One of our friends was really into that family. They were one of the main powers in Rome with the Vatican for like three lifetimes - she was writing her thesis on them.”

“Was that Izzy?” Peggy asks.

“Yeah.” Steve answers, as Bucky looks between the two of them. _You’ve been talking about Isabelle, he seems to ask?_

The rest of the evening is spent with Jones coaching Bucky; who, as Dernier said; does have a knack for languages that Steve never noticed at home, how to disguise his accent when he speaks German. Steve spends the evening, shoulders bent over a small desk, altering the attaché identification card’s sex and photograph from Peggy’s, and forging new documents on a type writer with signatures.

Peggy leans over his shoulder to see; he can sense she’s nodding. “That’s good, Steve, very good. You’re a natural at this - I knew you would be.”

“How do you figure that?”

“There are a lot of artists who’ve moved into forgery work. The German’s use them too - there was an operation for a while to forge American dollars, I believe.”

“I’m not a real artist, Peggy.”

“Not from what I’ve heard.” She says, and cants her hand towards the pair on the floor.

“_W__-__enn man__-__dem Teufel den kleinen __-__inger gibt, so nimmt er die ganze Hand_.” Bucky says.

“No, _Wenn man dem Teufel den kleinen Finger gibt, so nimmt er die ganze Hand_.” Gabe corrects the phrase he’s been having him practice.

“_Wenn man dem Teufel den kleinen Finger gibt, so nimmt er die ganze Hand_.”

_“Yep, good.”_

“Nor from what I’ve seen. You’re very talented.” Peggy adds.

He rolls his eyes, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates with the tweezers. “You’ve seen one drawing of a monkey, Peg, that’s hardly--besides, I only used to draw cartoons.”

“And paint signs, and shop dressing windows, and went to classes for it for a good while.” Peggy contradicts. All true facts. He glances at her with a raised eyebrow.

“_Peggy Carter_,” he says, “did you investigate me?”

She sits on the chair behind him. “It’s a good habit to get into.”

“Not sorry at all, are you?”

“Not a bit.” She chirps at him, and nods downwards. “Keep working.”

He goes back to it. “I never finished those classes, you know, or even close to the degree - don’t have the certificate.”

“And I never had a full certified education in code-breaking. Doesn’t mean I’m not bloody marvelous at it.”

Steve snorts a laugh. “True, true.”

“You’re very good Steve,” She repeats, “you shouldn’t put yourself down.”

“Thank you.” He says sincerely after a moment, awkward.

“Like I said,” Peggy starts again, amused. “I wanted you here for more than your..physical expertise, though it will certainly come in handy later with the operation - I needed a forger when the plan changed so abruptly and I had no contacts in this country.”

“So I’m a two for one package, huh?”

“Precisely. You’re born to do it.”

Steve hums, but smiles to himself at the compliment.

He works a few minutes more; quiet as a mouse as Gabe teaches Bucky, and now Falsworth and Morita, to pronounce from the backs of their throats, explaining that rolling your r’s is more of a regional dialect than a standard one.

“He’ll be alright you know.” Peggy comments, quiet so only he can hear. “I’ll be right there with him as a way out.” She says when he looks at her. “We have an escape route. I daresay - he might even be good at it. In all honesty - he was who I was hoping would take it - you and him were the two I wanted with me. No matter who you brought - it was you and him I meant to come.”

“Not sure I like the moral dilemma of that sentence.” He admits, being honest but in a gentler contradiction to the last time they disagreed on such. They both made an agreement to try and not let it happen again.

“In what way? That I wanted him here so I could pressure him into taking it?”

“I don’t want to say I take it how I see it but…”

“I can see where that impression comes from, it’s alright.” She assures, promising she’s not insulted. “That’s exactly how I worried you’d take it. I meant that - _you_ are immensely strategic and efficient, and frankly - amazing at forgery it turns out.” She cants her head at the work in front of him “- and insightful. And so’s he - more than the others aside from, say Dugan - when the man’s paying attention.” She rolls her eyes, and Steve can’t quite compress a smile. “Like you, Bucky picks up on things others wouldn’t - but especially when it comes to other people.”

“I know.” Steve says, because she’s right. Bucky can do this,_ because everyone has always loved Bucky_ \- he just doesn’t like the idea of him doing it when he clearly feels uncomfortable about it. “He’s insightful. He always has been.”

“You both think differently but are always on the same page, so anything you don’t think about, he does - and vice versa. That’s why you work so well together - better than anyone else I’ve seen - and this mission is very critical. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think he could do it - which I honestly believe he can - what he was able to glean and pass onto us while in Russia proves that.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve also seen him - and you -” she notes, “lift a number of things. Files, ammo, paperweights, a wallet or two. I never pegged, you especially, as a pick pocket. It threw me, honestly, for a while there.”

“I--we weren’t pick-pockets. Becca was for a little while.”

“Barnes’ sister?” Peggy knows he writes Becca, the only other woman in his life. He nods.

“We may have made her teach us so we knew what to look out for before we knocked the silly outta’ her and made her stop. She didn’t like us for a while after that.”

“Sounds like it was for her own good.”

“Oh, yeah. It definitely was. Her friends got caught a couple of months later.” He takes a second of silence to ensure he copies the loop of an L so the signature matches correctly. “You really think he’s got this in the bag, don’t you?” He asks. He’d seen the way the confidence had alighted in her eyes when Bucky had started nodding - so he believes her when she said he was the preferred choice.

“I do.” She says. “For all the reasons stated above. He’s also very good at putting on an act - by which I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.” She raises an eyebrow, and he nods.

“When he’s trying to, yeah.” Steve replies, “he wasn’t, for a while there. Or he was just too tired to.”

“He doesn’t seem tired now.”

“No, he’s….he’s been doing a lot better. I just….it’s selfish; and it’s not doing what it takes for the mission - but I guess, I guess I don’t want to run the risk of interfering with that.”

She stops his hand before the ink touches the next part of the paper. She makes him look at him, and her eyes are very sincere. “I know how important he is to you. I’ll have his back, Steve. I promise you.”

He smiles, grateful, and kisses her softly.

“Woo-woo!--”

He swears at Morita the same time as Peggy throws a dusty cushion at him, lips still locked. Bucky gives him a stationary thumbs up, but with a peculiar look on his face - and Dugan pretends to wolf-whistle so his intentions are clear while keeping their cover intact. Steve decides to ignore them for the rest of the night.

In the late morning they pack up and Steve does his last touches on the ID and the paperwork now the glue has dried overnight. They head out to scout the courthouse themselves, while Falsworth is already out scouting the restaurant early; leaving behind a radio for Peggy to pick up once they’re done. Peggy returns with a hotel room key for Bucky that she’s booked that morning; planning to head out together to split apart in the crowd - once she’s run through and tested the whole cover story with him again.

She stands in front of him, pinning the ID and attache rank pins to the lapel of Bucky’s uniform; all window dressing to play the part for the casual observer.

“Be careful, yeah?” Steve requests like a new tradition.

“Ditto.” Bucky says, even though this time he’s not doing anything until long into the next day.

“See you soon; both of you.” He says as he leaves, squeezing Peggy’s arm when only Bucky is there to see it, who respectfully pretends he doesn’t notice this time. As Steve climbs out the window to slip with the others from the balcony the last thing he hears of his friends is:

“You better be fucking right about this, Carter.”

Peggy is firm as she says, “I am.”

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_(“- but yeah, she was my first one, I think.”_

_“You think?”_

_“I think.”_

_“You’re not sure?”_

_Steve shrugs, “I said I was drinking, didn’t I?”)_

** **\+ 1 A MEMORY FORGOTTEN** **

_Steve is sixteen, and Steve has not had a good day. _

_His ma’s working an overnight shift, and Steve is still red with embarrassment, upset and near enough ready to start drilling his head into a wall. He’s useless, he’s never going to find anyone - he’s always going to be alone._

_There’s a tat tat tat on the door - ongoing. _

_“Noone’s home!” He calls._

_“I will pick the lock.” Bucky threatens from the other-side - still hammering on the door in a way that’s deliberately supposed to be annoying. Urgh. Steve gets up off the couch, opens the door - declares, “Whatever you want, I’m busy. Go away.” _

_He closes the door; and Bucky catches his foot in-between, jamming the door open. “Well - ow.” He states mildly. “Also - you are not busy. Not anymore. But nice try.”_

_Steve tries to warn, “Buck--”_

_And then Bucky’s slapping his pocket, hears the jangle of his keys safely in them, then pushes the door open and yanks Steve by the arm out of the apartment. He closes the door until he hears the latch click. “You’re coming with me.” _

_He starts tugging Steve bodily down the corridor by his arm. “Why? What’s this about?”_

_“Therapy.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“Just come on.”_

_“My ma--”_

_“--Is working a night-shift. You’re in the clear, so you’re out of excuses.”_

_He starts up the stairs as Steve tugs his arm free. Steve stops, sighing, then follows him obediently. He steps onto the next floor’s landing, goes to turn left automatically, then realizes Bucky’s halfway up the next flight. “Are we not going to yours?”_

_“Nope.” Bucky says out of sight, cheerfully popping the p. “You do not want to go in there right now. My ma and pa are… we’ll call them occupied. Occupied in what is probably going to turn into a loud occupied.”_

_“_ ** _ **Oh geez** _ ** _.” Steve groans from somewhere within himself. “Gross. I did not need to know that.”_

_“Oh whatever, just keep up.”_

_Steve tries his best - but Bucky’s easily at least three flights above him, and every time Steve looks for him on a landing - he hears his steps still going above. By the time Steve reaches him again he’s moving slow, and panting heavily. It’s only been a few months since he was so sick everyone thought he was a gonner’ and things still make him go a little weak in the knees, and light in the head especially. Bucky doesn’t ask him if he’s okay, or offers help, which he appreciates. He instead jimmies open the door and announces “ta-da!” sounding very impressed with himself. Stepping out onto the tenement roof they definitely should not be on, Steve looks around, carefully places his feet on the slightly slopped surface. It’s like Bucky’s looking to get another trespassing notice, and in their own home no less._

_“I’ll be impressed as soon as you tell me what the hell we’re doing out here.”_

_“Because my dear friend,” Bucky announces, swinging an arm over his shoulder and forcing him to walk without a care into the center, “my brother from another mother, my---”_

_“Get to the point.”_

_Bucky laughs, “_ ** _ **because** _ ** _ \- when your best friend gets his heart shot down, stomped on---”_

_“I didn’t---”_

_“And astrologically unfairly broken by a dame nowhere near worth his time,” Bucky turns, opens his jacket to reveal a nearly full bottle of whisky, with a enormous smile. “You get your best friend drunk.”_

_Steve stands there, Bucky waggles his eyebrows at him - and then Steve decides, “Yes. Okay, I’m down.”_

_“Hallelujah to that!”_

_An hour and a half later, it’s dark - and the stars are sparkling in the sky, just about visible beneath the orange radiance of the entire city’s street lamps. _

_“Pal, she’s just, you know, one girl. One girl outta’, outta’ so many, you know? There’s so many other girls in the sea.”_

_“Fish in the sea.”_

_“What?” Bucky asks blearily._

_“It’s fish in the sea.”_

_“Fish? Why are you talking about fish, I’m talking about girls.”_

_Steve snorts, rolling onto his stomach to poke him in the cheek. “You’re always talking about girls.” He teases._

_“Can you blame me, when they look the way they look - especially Colette man, did I tell you---”_

_“You’ve told me everythin’ ‘bout Colette, pal. I know all about her strawberry blond hair, and her lips, and hers eyes the colour of the freshly cut grass and her name - especially about how sexy her name---”_

_“Oh shu’p.” Bucky motions, but he’s smiling and pink with embarrassment this time._

_“Not when I can send you that colour by mentioning her,” Steve declares, amused. “You’re very romantic, I’ll give you ‘hat.”_

_“Oh sshh, this is about you, not, not me.” Bucky decides slowly, sitting up so Steve has to tip his head back to look at him. “Okay,” Bucky says, taking another swig and clumsily pointing. “Question. Big question.”_

_He is very intoxicated. Steve is also very intoxicated. He’s never been this drunk before - it makes his recklessness seem less reckless, and his confidence more…confi-stronger? Whatever the word is. He feels good, warm. “Uh-huh. What?”_

_“Pretty sure I’ve---I, I mean, that I know the answer but’ - you’ve never kissed anyone, right? You’da told me if you did.”_

_“Jus' because you tell me every time you get snogged doesn’t mean I haft’a tell you.”_

_“Well no, but you would right?”_

_“Yeah.” Steve admits, because he totally would. “An’ you’re right. I haven’t.”_

_“But you’ve wanted to--”_

_“Of course I want to, I told ya that last year. What kinda question is that?”_

_“Cool your chops,” Bucky laughs, “I’m just sussin’ you out.”_

_“Buck,” Steve murmurs, leaning his head onto his arm and closing his eyes. “You’ve had me sussed out since we were eleven. Don’t know how much more sussin’ you even have left to do.”_

_“Can’t help ta’ do more.”_

_“There ain’t anymore. You,” he flaps a hand, “you know all my suss.”_

_“Le’ me just try. Who do you want to kiss?”_

_“That question answers itself with who I fizzled out with this morning.” Steve groans, “think I’ll settle with anyone who’ll give me time’a day now, though. I’d take a frog, maybe that’ll turn me into a prince worth kissin’.”_

_Bucky pats him consolingly on the back. “Good on you though, you managed to get ‘hi’ and ‘milkshake’ out. That’s two more words than last time. Least’ you’re past staring star-struck at ‘em.”_

_Steve smacks his head into his arms, one-two-three-four, groaning as he relives the mortifying memory. And geez, **all** her friends saw it - they were **giggling** after. They were giggling in the way you don’t want girls to giggle. He’s giving up on teenage love, it’s not going to happen. It’s probably never going to happen in his whole damn life. Least he’s likely only got a few years left to try and ignore it before he tops off. He’s resigned to dying at this point._

_“You’re getting better.” Bucky keeps consoling._

_“I don’t think the word milkshake constitutes a improvement, Buck.”_

_“You’re not running away from cooties anymore - that totally counts.”_

_Steve smacks him, hard, and Bucky just laughs, flopping onto his back like he’s been felled and then Steve’s laughing too, nearly hysterically between hiccups._

_“Least I, leas--” he gasps, “least’ I don’t have to--to worry about catching anything obscene like you do.”_

_Bucky snorts, “you can’t catch anything from kissin’”_

_“Uh - mono.” Steve corrects, “or you forgetting bout’ your whining last spring.”_

_“Sssshhh,” Bucky hushes, finger to his lips. “We don’t talk about last spring.” Steve adds a guffaw into his hiccups there, turning onto his side. “Besides, I’mma with Colette now - ain’t anythin’ I’ll be catching ‘cept her love---”_

_“Don’t start again,” Steve laughs, raising his head back up to look at the underside of Bucky’s chin._

_“I only mean--like the naughty kinda’ stuff - that comes with the sex stuff--”_

_“Which you are doing.” Steve easily reminds him._

_Bucky lays a hand over Steve’s face without looking at him, muffling him abruptly. “Will. You. Let. Me. Talk.”_

_“Wwwe--” He licks Bucky’s hand and pulls it off his face by the wrist. “Will. You. Stop. Lying. To. Yourself. I betcha you’ve caught something.”_

_“I betcha you’re a punk. Colette’s as clean as a whistle, and we always wear johnnys. We don’t have a death wish.”_

_“Yeah okay.” Steve agrees, and watches the clouds drifting for a little bit. A weight lands on his stomach, and he looks over to see Bucky’s blindly pushed the bottle towards him. He takes it wordlessly and drinks. “I wish I’d never gone up to her,” he decides, “I wish I’d saved myself---if I ever try to do it again - you need to stop me.”_

_“I ain’t gonna do that.”_

_“Yeah you are.” Steve orders._

_“If I stop you tryna’ go up to convince someone to kiss ya, then you ain’t ever gonna’ get kissed, are ya? Use your brain, doofus.” He aims to poke Steve in the temple and ends up poking him in the nose. “That’s your honker isn’t it?”_

_“Yes.” Steve tells him, “and this honker needs its owner’s best friend to pull his weight so his best ever pal doesn’t embarrass himself in front of_ ** _ ** everyone** _ ** _ again.”_

_Bucky sighs, “we could always pay someone to kiss you.” He suggests._

_Normally Steve would pull a face, affronted and insulted, but today was today - and today was terrible. “I’m half considering it. Hell, why not?” He decides suddenly, “I’d be good. Everyone makes such a big deal bout’ it - it’d be good to just get it over with.”_

_“Nu-uh.” Bucky says abruptly, sitting up and swaying for a moment, and makes Steve sit up too. He pulls Steve up so they’re sat face to face when he tries to wave him off. _

_Steve stares at him, bemused. “What?”_

_“I…”_

_“Buck?”_

_“Now, I know, I know you know that I - you know that I like Colette, like a lot, an’ I’m with her, and I’m drunk - and your drunk but… but I want you to forget about that for a second, okay?”_

_“Okay.” Steve repeats, bemusement still on his face._

_“I just wanna’…I wanna make sure that the first person who kisses you is someone that loves you.”_

_Steve raises an eyebrow, rubbing his eye and jaw. “An’ how are you gonna’----” he stops, “are you, are you serious?”_

_Bucky nods, silently._

_Steve stares at him for a long moment, until his friend eventually speaks again._

_“First’s are important - an’ like I said….”_

_“...you wanna make sure the person who kisses me loves me.” Steve finishes._

_“Is that okay?”_

_They stare at each other; eyes bright with drink but intensely focused. A sweep of wind flies through their space, and it ruffles Bucky’s hair up freely, and then it falls wavy across his forehead. Steve’s always liked his hair best when it did that. He swallows._

_“That’s okay.” He decides, voice a murmur and…_

_Bucky surges forward, and his hands touch Steve’s jaw first, cresting them either-side - and then his lips push against his. They’re ----_

_Bucky kisses him like he’s always wanted to be kissed, soft and moist and hot and breathy; close that their sharing one breath. It’s a sensational, timeless, passionate moment. The heat rises in his cheeks as his friend’s tongue parts his lips, not trying to win a battle but seeking union until it touches his, quick and electric and delicious, then firmer, more determined. They both taste like whiskey, he realizes blearily; one hand landing on Bucky’s shoulder and the other laid against the forearm holding Steve’s head up. The temperature out here on the roof must have risen ten degrees, and he doesn’t understand how his body can be so warm and yet so shivery too._

_Steve holds the moment there, not moving or returning; just living it for another moment, and Bucky pulls back slowly._

_His still has hold of Steve’s jaw, and his lips quirk up into a soft small-mouthed smile. “Yeah?”_

_He pulled back before Steve could return it, Steve waited too long - except their alone and noone can see them - and Bucky just kissed him, even though he was with Colette, even though he’s _ ** _ **half in love** _ ** _ with Colette; because he wanted to make sure the first person Steve ever kissed _ ** _ **loved** _ ** _ him._

_He doesn’t give Bucky an answer, just tugs him forward and closes his eyes the way Bucky always told him to do. _

_He _ ** _ **misses.** _ **

_ His lips land a tad to far left and their noses bump then clash. He can’t help it, he snorts abruptly; hiding his face in Bucky’s shoulder who starts laughing over his. “Of course,” Steve mumbles, shaking into Bucky’s shoulder, “of course I miss.”_

_“I’d like to say I’m surprised but---” He smacks Bucky on the back in admonishment, still quivering with laughter. He can somehow feel the crinkle of Bucky’s smile even though he can’t see or touch it._

_“It’s your fault. You’re the one who always told me to close my eyes.”_

_“Only a fool blames his tools.”_

_“So you agree, you are a tool then?”_

_Bucky laughs again, then sways backwards out of Steve’s shoulder, bracing himself on Steve’s wrists. “You wanna’ try again?” Bucky offers._

_“You reckon?”_

_Bucky nods, the same smile, and points to his eyelid, cheek, nose, forehead, and lips in turn. “Pop quiz - is my mouth here, here, here or---”_

_Steve shuts him up with his own mouth - and this time he gets it right, and once he’s sure he’s aimed right - then he closes his eyes. He can feel that crinkle properly now as Bucky manoeuvres his mouth into position, tilting his head so that their lips can meet firmly and happily at last. They peck together; and Steve pushes forward a little; Bucky pulls back a little; murmur’s “just relax, go slow” into him. He listens to the advice, goes again, raising his mouth to Bucky’s and sharing many unrestrained and exploratory kisses. _

_At first Steve’s turn at a main kiss was small, gentle and very meaningful, but it grows bigger and more intense; and soon he’s tasting Bucky tentatively with his tongue as he traces it across the bottom of his lip, and not as tentatively. He decides to stop; to go with no tongue - and just has their lips trying to swallow lips as Bucky lets him lead._

_Breaking off, even for just a moment is difficult. His mind is stunned, his head light with Bucky’s father’s whisky and vertigo. The world feels rocked._

_On their next one, Bucky breaths right into his nose each time he exhales, tickling his nostril hairs and making him giggle, which starts Bucky giggling too. They pull back sheepishly, smiling at each other, both of their eyes shining bright. Bucky takes his hand and swings them both back so their lying side-by side, looking up at the night sky, bottle forgotten next to them for a moment. Their hands rest loosely near each other, fingertips brushing each other on Bucky’s thigh; until Steve looks at his profile - and makes a point of taking it and holding them together this time._

_“You’re really good at that, you know.”_

_“I’ve had a lot of practice.” Bucky allows, closing his eyes. _

_Steve keeps watching him. “Do you reckon Tanya Lowell loved you on your first?”_

_“Think she loved my swanky home-run more than she loved me.”_

_“Then I wish I was your first too.” Steve replies, making Bucky look at him. He leans his head in and bumps their heads together in response; and Steve closes his eyes another time. _

_Steve’s seen many kisses drawn into the grain of newspaper adverts, witnessed many a kiss on the big screen, read many a paragraph from the best writers who ever lived, seen sculptures weaved together with stone; frozen solid and together for the rest of time, or pictures with colourful paint - and they’re all great; some never to be forgotten - but Steve reckons his first - well his first left them all behind._

_The next morning he wakes with a pounding head, late for class, and the important feeling that _ ** _ **something ** _ ** _happened on that roof. Bucky throws a piece of chalk at the board, making the teacher turn at the sound and splat; and Steve uses the distraction to slip into the room and into his seat._

_What are your talking about Mr Lehnman, I’ve been sat here all morning._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Friends, welcome to the nicknamed Memory Chapter - as I've aptly dubbed it - we have memories within memories within memories for Almighty's sake. I apologise if there's any typos - I'll probably reread and edit if I spot any after it's posted - I just wanted to get it up before another day past me by before I finished the final proof read. I hope you all liked the chapter (especially that last little +1 memory *wink wink* - tricked you with the summary, didn't I? ) and are having a wonderful date/evening/night! Thank you as always to my amazing reviewers/commenters/kudosers - and all the rest of you too. Your love and support for this story means the world to me.
> 
> FYI - Any comments I haven't replied to yet, I'm sorry, I will be with you tomorrow! But now I need bed :)
> 
> REFERENCES:  
CARBINE - formally the United States Carbine, Caliber .30, M1) is a lightweight, easy to use, .30 carbine (7.62x33 mm) semi-automatic carbine that was a standard firearm for the U.S. military during World War II, the Korean War and well into the Vietnam War.  
PANZERSCHRECK - Panzerschreck was the popular name for the Raketenpanzerbüchse 54, an 88 mm reusable anti-tank rocket launcher developed by Nazi Germany in World War II.  
\+ More guns that I've probably forgotten to reference - oops!  
ORION/ SIRIUS / LEO / CANCER / Boötes / HYDRA - These are all constellations; the last four are the ones that are visible in Spring; the two former in Winter.  
WEHRMACHT - the German armed forces, especially the army, from 1921 to 1945.  
QUISLING REGIME - Quisling is a term originating in Norway, which is used in Scandinavian languages and in English for a person who collaborates with an enemy occupying force – or more generally as a synonym for traitor. The word originates from the surname of the Norwegian war-time leader Vidkun Quisling, who headed a domestic Nazi collaborationist regime during World War II.
> 
> REF - A bunch of the 'film reel' narration is taken from actual propaganda films at the time - particularly the first one - which was a propaganda documentary about British Commandos.


	34. PART 23 (b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His cover story is down to the last detail, he reminds himself, his name is Georg Krause. He’s been under Heinz Lehmann, the new Reichskommissariat Norwegen for three years, from Goslar, where his favourite place there is the Oker river. His father was a miner. He is an only child.

BUCKY

.

Otto Baumgartner is in his late forties, though he looks younger; Bucky’s told. He’s moved up in the _P__olitiets Etterretning_ ranks with startling speed; amassing a loyal staff beneath him and a reputation for boldness for the sake of ruthlessness. His only weakness, it seems, is his affinity for a leud hand and hotel room encounters with young, dark and handsomes. Bucky has been told he’s been handsome before; many times - but he doesn’t feel very handsome now, buttoned up to the neck in this black uniform. It’s the same level minus the jilted hat, he’d worn out on his last night in New York; but it doesn’t sit the same - feels too polished, professional, too….bureaucratic. Maybe that’s it. He’s never really been the bureaucratic sort, not even when he was a student. He never lasted in that clerk job he got.

He’d told Carter the only way he knew how to flirt - if he wasn’t being ridiculously charming; which honestly is normally all he needed with women - isn’t sly like her. He’s leud and notoriously low-class. He’d said, _“There’s nothing distinguished about it.”_

_“That’s good. We don’t want distinguished.” Was the response he gotten and did not want. He’d scoffed, gesturing at his ironed-to-an-inch uniform - “I know,” Carter said, “its called a cover; an act. We’ve been over this - you’re not supposed to be old money type; we’re playing to your strengths. Remember, you weren’t given the position, you”_

_“I know know,” Bucky had to allow. “I worked my way to my position off my own back. Came from nothing, joined the air-force when I was seventeen, found I had a _ _penchant_ _ for numbers and paperwork and moved up in the department that way yahda yahda yahda.”_

_“Yes, good. He’s _ _ambitious_ _, he’ll understandbe_ **_ attracted _** _ to that. Test the waters - be bold about it. Your, what you call, low class - it’ll _ **_ sell it _**_Barnes.”_

_“If you say so.” Bucky said doubtfully._

He’s been watching the bar with Falsworth from across the street for the last two hours; while the man runs over what all the pins on his lapels mean for something to do. Carter left an hour ago for the evening shift at the Grand Terminus, where she’s been working as a server for the last three days so she could be in place with him; and have the ability to pass something with a serving of drinks if needed. There’s also the very valid point of watering down Bucky’s drinks so he doesn’t get uselessly sloshed as Baumgartner hopefully will, lets not forget. God, Bucky wants to get drunk - he hasn’t gotten drunk in so long.

“This is so stupid.” He mutters.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?” Bucky retorts at him. “This isn’t normal, what she’s having me do.”

_What do you call us and what we did then?_ Andrew’s shade asks from a chair in the light, legs crossed and curtain from the open window billowing through half of his body and head. 

_Was that immoral? What that invert? Didn’t that make you an invert - you’re the one who took it._

Bucky nearly tells him to ‘_shut up the fuck up_’ out loud.

Why is he here? He’s only supposed to come when Bucky is sleep-deprived and dead inside to remind him to keep going and live. He’s been sleeping - he’s been dreaming - but he’s been sleeping; the world’s not blurring out with exhaustion; he’s not falling head over his heels. So why? This though, right now; is living a little too much on the wrong side of the law - maybe that’s it; ‘cause he’s freaking out.

_How is he the best person for this - the guy who doesn’t like to be fucking touched half the time anymore?_ He finds himself irrationally, and not so irrationally, angry at Falsworth for not fucking swallowing the shit and stepping up instead. A fucking honey trap - Courtney would be killing herself with laughter now - what would his pop say about this?

_It’s just for the mission, pop, that’s all; a _ _compromise_ _for the greater good - that’s it._

Would he believe you? He knew you as well as anything - do you even believe _you_ anymore?

_What’s ye’ur excuse to him fer’ us then? So much fer’ loving me somehow, somewhere. _Andrew accuses from the corner.

_You are not __helping__!_ Bucky hisses in his thoughts.

_Good, are ye trying to hurt me? Hurt us? I thought we were something.’_

“Motherfucker.” Bucky mutters, and puts his back to him to start pacing.

“Barnes”

“Justshut up. I need some space to think.” He snaps - pacing and yanking at his sleeves. He pulls at the collar, constricted and tight. He needs a second jump into the Atlantic to flush this all out of him. Or be out in the warm sun - and not this dark third floor apartment, to lighten him up. He needs...he needs _something_, whatever that may be.

“Alright…” Falsworth says calmly after a moment. “but you need to calm down - take it down a notch. If you’re this wound up when you go down there it’s not going to pass. He’ll be able to tell.”

“Oh what?” Bucky spits, “are you suddenly Sidney-fucking-Riley? You an expert in undercover work now? Kiss my goddamn ass, Monty.”

There’s a long point of silence - which through Monty clearly expresses that he thinks that was uncalled for. Probably was, but Bucky really does not give a damn care - this is so stupid. He can’t do this, it’s too much - what was he thinking? If this guy touches him he’ll more likely lash out and stab him with the knife in his boot than sidle closer to him. Eventually Falsworth says: “I’m just trying to help.”

_Then why didn’t you grow a pair of balls and say yes then? Why did you leave it to me to do this? Were was your __goddamn__ tongue when we were round that table? Why is it always down to me - can’t it be someone else’s turn to be the unlucky sod for a change?_ Why isn’t Steve fucking brunette, is the real question. He feels like crying with frustration.

Falsworth sighs mournfully. “So much for that week-long good mood. I had hope it was going to last - clearly I should have known better.”

“I swear to fuckingnow is really not the”

“Time? It kind of is, Barnes. You’re thinking too much. You need”

“Monty, with all due respect - you don’t know what I’m feeling or thinking - or _need_. Despite what everyone seems to think - I’m not a goddamn book for you all to pick apart likelike vultures going at a fucking piece of meat. So back off!”

The man looks down, a little mollified - and Bucky at least partially feels good for having got that part out to someone at least. He’d forgotten for a while what it felt like to be assessed all the time while in Belarus with the Soviets - none of the Russians had known the history - and so none of them looked at him like he was a fucking time bomb waiting to explode all the goddamn time. He’s remembered that since coming back; and it’s gotten very old very fast now he’s experienced the opposite; despite how he’s been pushing through. When his friends appraise each one of his morning moods and add encouraging words to him; “_all smiles today, huh Sarge? That’s swell._”, or _“have a bit of my D-ration chocolate man, it’ll cheer you up. Gotta line your stomach_” it grates at him in a way he hasn’t experienced before.

Let alone the conversations that go on about Bucky when they think he can’t hear, which _he can,_ oftentimes through the walls. They’re worse, especially when they’re drunk and loose whatever restraint they already have. It’s why he stayed in with Steve last time. They mean well - but he’s so far done with it now the need to say something is unavoidable. 

Maybe this is how Steve used to feel all the time…Bucky never tried to patronize him, but he sometimes feels like maybe he wasn’t always as successful as he’d like.

He liked the feeling of being anonymous with the Soviets; just one in a team of snipers - the _pinostan_; and not the traumatized ex-experiment who also has the right to give them orders courtesy of Steve’s backwards choice. What a joke - this whole thing - his whole life - is, though Monty is correct on one count - if he doesn’t get his shit together Baumgartner is going to suss him out from the first moment he steps inside.

“Okay.” Falsworth says calmly, agreeing. He lets Bucky pace in silence for five minutes, until its clear to both of them its not working either. After making sure it’s welcome, he offers: “How about we try something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” he blows out a breath, “getting it out; the tension - lay it into me instead.”

“What?” Bucky spits at him.

“I’m serious - come at me. Hit me if you need to, distract yourself. I’m the coward who didn’t stand up and take one for the team, so you had to.” Bucky opens his mouth, gaping like a fish; “I know that’s what you’re thinking,” Falsworth tells him, “I know it is. And it’s distracting you from the prep you need to be doing. Come on.”

“No.”

“_Yes._ I’m the coward - and I’m glad you’re doing it so I don’t have to.”

“You’re just saying that to get at me.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that part is true. I know it is.” Falsworth retorts, “you’re the one whose going have all those slimy hands on you - and I get to sit in a car waiting in the sun”

It’s surprisingly easy to flare, even considering he said _no;_ even knowing it’s all deliberate to trigger him. There it is again; that anger - flaring out like a sunbeam. He decks his fist into Monty’s cheekbone hard enough to near floor him; and he shoves Bucky right back, so he hits him in the stomach. The man coughs harshly, and after a moment Bucky stops looming and starts pacing again.

Monty groans and asks, “any better?”

“No.” He retorts with a snap. Bucky keeps moving.

“Well,” Falsworth sighs, rubbing his cheek. He cuts off to grimace, tongue running over his teeth; mutters, “that’s gonna bruise - shit.” He clears his throat, starting again. “Well, any other ideas? What can I do?”

_Nothing. Take over. It’s too late for that now. I don’t know._ He remembers the jolt of feeling that hit him when Monty said ‘he’s going to be able to tell.’

Abruptly Bucky turns. “Tell me I’m going to fuck it up.”

“How is _that _going to help?”

“It’ll make me want to prove you wrong,_ obviously._”

“Obviously?That’s not” He shakes his head, “you and bloody Rodgers - what is up with you two constantly proving your worth out of spite? Isn't there another way to get you two to saddle up?”

“Tell me.”

Falsworth sighs, then meets his eyes. “You’re going to fuck it up. All of it. He’s going to be able to tell you’re a spy - right off the bat - he’ll send his men in. You’ll be captured, I’ll be captured; Agent Carter will be captured. McMillion will be moved or killed - we’ll miss the chance to recover him.”

Bucky, pacing, nods and motions with his hand. “Keep going.”

“McMillion will build more weapons for them - a bomb even maybe - they’ll set it on the allies. Millions will be killed. It’ll be your fault. All your fault - cause you fucked this up and couldn’t cope with a hand on your thigh for one evening.”

Something clicks in his head._ Yep, that’ll do it._

. . .

In a fit of last minute flash of nerves again, Bucky sharply hangs back for his approach, bending down to pretend to tie his shoelace, frantically thinking for one last grasp for something to get him out of this. Carter, serving champagne with a smile and a tray in one hand to a couple of ladies, gives him a look through the window. He heaves one last breath, and stands again; walking in through doors of the open restaurant.

“Excuse me, ma’m.” He requests in German, stopping Peggy with an arm as she passes in front of the door. The glint in her eye tells him he’s concealed any accent from it well. “You don’t happen to serve _kjøttboller__,_ do you?”

“Yes sir,” She answers, and affects a slight Norwegian accent into her pronunciation. “We do in fact, you’ll find a menu at the bar if you would like a beverage first.” She directs her eyes at a heavy-set figure sat near the wall of the bar, nursing a martini; straight, with ice. _Target __identified__,_ Bucky thinks.

“Thank you.” He notes, and heads that way. The man is thickset and big-boned - and may have a small belly under his suit. He has a full head of hair, and is rather handsome, considering, if you were a fairy and looked at those things that is. Which Bucky decisively is not. He’s in an immaculate suit, wearing an expensive watch - and most importantly; startlingly ambitious.

He seats himself with two seats and one man between them, waves the bartender down; laying the folder of ‘work’ materials down beside him. He could use some Irish courage right now, as his pa would say. He leans forwards over the bar, stood with one foot on the frame of the stool, stretching his body in a way that’s noticeable; and requests a whisky. As he leans and lowers himself on the stool; he catches Baumgartner’s eyes; gives a quick nod and smile. Then man returns it; but Bucky’s aware that the eyes stay on the side of his head several long lingering moments later.

_Christ okay; so much for a slow introduction; more like a train hurtling down the tracks, Jesus_ \- he disguises the thought with a long sip of his drink. The whisky slinks down his throat and sits warm in his belly.

His cover story is down to the last detail, he reminds himself, his name is Georg Krause. He’s been under Heinz Lehmann, the new_ Reichskommissariat Norwegen_ for three years, from Goslar, where his favourite place there is the Oker river. His father was a miner, and he’s an only child. He’s playing younger than he is, only twenty one - Baumgartner likes them young is the word.

He cracks open a cigarette packet, and pulls an ashtray towards him - glancing at the restaurant on the overlooking floor; there are several _Wehrwacht_ men smoking in groups of three or four over various dishes of fish and meat._ It figures,_ Bucky thinks, that expensive hotels where officers stay have been able to get copious amounts of food to serve - while the rest of the city is rationed or starving as all the food production made is shipped out to the German ranks. He lights up, and makes a point of puckering his lips and not cringing or pulling a face at the taste, as he blows out billows of smoke. The eyes on the side of his head remain, lingering; leave - and then return. Carter approaches the man between them, and tells his him table is ready, if he would like to accompany her; and the space between them becomes conspicuously empty.

A stool to his right scrapes back, and Bucky takes another drink so only ice cubes and the dregs of whisky remain, swirling it around as someone shadows over him.

“Har du vel ikke lys?” Otto Baumgartner questions in Norwegian, and Bucky affects a surprised look, turning to him.

“Es tut mir leid?” (“****I am sorry?****”) He answers in German, tinging his voice in confusion, making sure he’s concealed any accent. He smiles easily in acquiescence, and subtly looks the man up and down, from face to feet; just enough for him to notice.

“Ah - Deutsch,” Otto Baumgartner says, switching to rough German; looking amused at himself. “Natürlich. Wie dumm von mir. Haben Sie kein Licht, oder?” (****“Of course. How stupid of me. Don’t happen to have a light do you?****”) He gestures to Bucky’s smoking cigarette in one hand, balanced between two fingers.

“Oh, Ja, natürlich, natürlich.”

Baumgartner pulls his own cigarettes out of his pocket - thicker set and stronger looking - his watch glints at Bucky as the light catches it. The man places it in his mouth as Bucky leans forward and lights it for him. The man puffs on it experimentally a moment, checking it’s lit as Bucky returns the plain departmental lighter to his pocket.

“Danke, mein Freund. Es scheint, dass ich meine im Büro gelassen habe.”(“****Thank you, my friend. It seems I’ve left mine at the office****.”)

Bucky highly doubts that. In fact from how Baumgartner’s eyes followed his lips, he’s willing to bet big money that the man has likely got his own lighter on his person at this very moment.

“Macht es Ihnen nichts aus, wenn ich mich hinse?” (“****Do you mind if I sit?****”) He asks, and Bucky waves a welcoming hand at the seat beside him, so the man sits; his legs turned to the side so they lie close to Bucky’s own. The man introduces himself, holding his hand for Bucky to shake; his German is slower and his own accent, which sounded so smooth and natural in his native tongue, twinges in his German speech. Bucky answers the introduction.

“Ich habe dich hier noch nicht gesehen, Georg, und ich bin oft hier.” (****“I have not seen you here before, Georg, and I am here often****.”)

“Ich bin hier für die Arbeit - ich habe den Abend frei bekommen, als ich früh fertig war - und ich habe schon lange keinen Drink mehr getrunken,” Bucky smiles, “also kam ich hierher. Ich habe Gutes gehört. Bleiben Sie hier?” (“****I am here for work - I got the evening off when I finished early - and I have not had a drink for a good while****,) Bucky smiles, (“****so I came here. I have heard good things. Are you staying here?****”) He cuts in, curious, as Carter told him to be direct - lay the foundations for the evening ahead of time. It won’t be immediate, Bucky knows, Baumgartner enjoys a good bout of conversation beforehand supposedly.

"Ich bin. Ich kann heute Abend nicht spät bleiben - ich arbeite morgens.“ (“****I am. I cannot stay late tonight - I work in the morning.****”)

“Welche Art von Arbeit machen Sie?” (“****What kind of work do you do?****”) Bucky asks.

After a moment of frowning and listening to Bucky speak - German is clearly not his second language, Barumgartner replies: “Der Typ,” (“****The kind****,”)He blows out his cigarette and tips is martini glass slightly, “die Sie zum Trinken antreibt.” (“****that drives you to drink.****”)

Bucky laughs, light and amused, leaning on one hand while he smokes rather vaingloriously. “Wir müssen dann die gleiche Aufgabe haben.” (“****We must have the same job then.****”)

Barumgartner chuckles, asks in careful German: “I suppose it is unlikely you speak Norwegian.”

“I am afraid not.” Bucky replies.

“And I am afraid - as you can likely tell - my German is not quite up to standard, especially once I’ve begun,” he tips his glass again, and Bucky nods with an understanding smile. The man laughs at himself, so Bucky chuckles with him, before Baumgartner asks, “do you speak”

“I know English,” he offers in German, “do”

“Yes yes - English - English I know better.” He says still in German, then switches to Bucky’s first language.”Shall we speak in that?”

“Of course,” Bucky switches too, _thank_ _god_, before he lost his focus on watching every last bit of pronunciation Jones taught him speedily last night. This should be easier - less to focus on. He keeps a thread of German in his voice as an accent, pretending to carry it over.

“Good good, that makes things easier.” _Yes it does,_ “I like you Georg, you make good conversation. Tell me, what do you do for work to bring you to Bergen?”

“The work that drives me to drink?”

“That one exactly.”

“I am Ambassador Lehmann’s Air attache, at the Embassy” The man nods in understanding, keeping specific eye contact with Bucky as he smokes. Bucky takes a drag to separate his sentence - and only just remembers not to pull a face. Cigarettes are disgusting - but it’s one hell of an oral fixation, and he most definitely isn’t smoking to distract from hunger here - he’s not in the least peckish. “to help advise him on those matters.”

“You are very young.” Barumgartner comments, “I mean,” he adds to ensure Georg Krause is not insulted, “that it is a rather…”

“The word you looking for is impressive.”

Barumgartner laughs, loudly and abruptly, and he grins at Bucky’s pleased grin. He allows: “An impressive position to have, for a pilot who looks as young as you do. How”

“Twenty two, sir.”

“For twenty two - very impressive.” His eyes linger on Bucky’s uniform and any attachments to it - as though looking for an expensive watch or chain or shoes that suggest money. Bucky is wearing none of that - just the designated uniform of the position he’s pretending to inhabit.

“Well - I am assistant to the senior air attache,” he allows with a mollified grin that he deliberately makes look fake; letting himself fall into the part. “I am still very proud of - of me,” he says, accentuating the accent. “A lot of the men I meet come from…” He stops as if realizing he should be careful of his words.

Barumgartner leans back a little, considering, as if perhaps realizing where ‘Georg’ may be going with this. “No, go on.”

When Bucky looks at him again, he nods, encouragement that isn’t paternal on his face.

“A lot of the men I work with come from money - wealthy families”

“Men who have been given the job due to their station.” Barumgartner finishes, smirking. “And often enough do not deserve such a position.” He smirks at Bucky who returns it as he assents that’s where he was going. “Now that is something I know well. Do not be afraid to speak it, Georg, when it is the truth. You worked your way up?”

“Yes sir, I joined when I seventeen - moved into this sphere before the,” he cants his eyes up, as if rolling them, “_Amerikaner_ decided they wanted a piece too.”

“Endurance - perseverance - something I have experienced and admire. I am similar - came from what many men call pitiful fishing folk.” Baumgartner replies, leaning over to put out his cigarette in the glass ashtray by Bucky’s arm. “You should be proud Georg. You like power, yes?”

“Not as much as you do, I feel like.”

The man laughs again, “You are a_Frekke _sod, you are.” Bucky cants his head, confused and curious. “Cheeky sod,” the man translates for him, laughing.

“Ah,” Bucky says, “well - yes. My mother never taught me manners,” which is true for Georg as it is for Bucky, “and my _Papst _long gave up trying to curb either of us.” True for Bucky’s father as well. “I am right though, aren’t I? You have not told me what you do. Fair is fair Mr Barumgartner.”

The man considers him for a long moment, and Bucky lights up another cigarette, grinning and smoking. He makes his lips pop around it. It’s this moment that Bucky, _somehow, somewhere, _knows he has him. The man drags his eyes away, and linger on Bucky’s short glass a moment. “You have finished your drink. Let me buy you another, Georg. What is your poison?”

“Are you sure, it’s quite”

“I insist.” He presses, and gestures forwards.

“Whisky or bourbon -” Bucky decides, adding. “I have always had a taste for that over beer or brandy from home.”

“Which kind?”

‘Georg’ laughs at the clarification, “anything? I am not fussy - we drink anything in my village.”

Barumgartner clicks at the bartender, who comes over easily. “"En av dine bedre bourbons. En dobbel." (“****One of your better bourbons. A double****.”)

“Selvfølgelig, sir.” The bartender replies.

Bucky uses the moment as their glasses are taken away to catch the eye of Carter; who slips past a table of gentleman with a tray held above her head. She looks over the balcony and down at him, giving him a subtle nod; he’s doing well. She gestures to the barman below as she speaks to a customer with her other hand; signifying for Bucky to drink - and have Baumgartner drink his quickly so he’s looser and easier to distract. He checks the time on his ‘companions’ watch - he has 57 minutes until the pass-code delivery.

Baumgartner returns to their conversation as the bartender slides Bucky’s -_ Jesus, is that a double or triple_, bourbon over ice to him; placed on a matching napkin to the one with Carter’s rough layout on from yesterday.

“Thank you very much, sir.” Bucky adds, grinning and grateful, swallowing the warmth.

The man laughs at what must be his obvious, sudden, expression, and the blush that takes his cheeks isn’t entirely pretend as he realizes. “It is good?”

“Very good.” Bucky replies, “the best I’ve ever had, even.”

“I told them to give you one of their best.”

Bucky clears his throat, coughing, as he takes another gulp._ Get bold, start flirting; asshole, come on._ “I can tell. And about twice the amount too.” The man chuckles, looking pleased at Bucky’s pleasure. “Are you trying to get me drunk sir?”

“And why would I do that?”

“To have your way with me, of course.” With one hand he puts out his cigarette with a single movement.

The mans eyes glint. “That is a very audacious statement, Georg. Insolent.”

Bucky makes his glint back, still leaning on his hand, head cocked. “Is it?”

He cocks his head. “You are extremely forward. _Dangerously_ so.”

“You told me not to hold back, remember. “ He retorts, and the man looks amused as he realizes he _did_ say that. “And somehow, I don’t think I’m wrong.”

“You misunderstand me.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky affects, barely remembering to keep the pretend-accent in a way that says he obviously doesn’t believe him.

The hunger in the man’s eyes is already growing, as is the amusement, though the wariness is still there. Bucky understands the fear - this is not something to be careless over despite what Carter and Jacques behave like - this thing that Bucky’s suggesting is incredibly dangerous - he can't even believe he said that out-loud.

“There is nothing wrong with a few extra fingers of drink when you are with friends.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow with a_ ‘is that what we are now?’_ The man gives him a warning look Bucky doesn’t take much notice of - and swallows another sip - now **_**Carter**_** is giving him a warning look from the stairs. _Don’t get yourself drunk before he does,_ her glare says, so Bucky disguises it, wetting his lips instead. God he wants to down this entire fucking glass now, while keeping this stupid act up so he won’t give it away._ Is some stupid nuclear __scientist__ really this important, is he really worth Bucky having to do this?_

_Yes_, he tells himself, _Carter called Steve’s help for this, and so she’s counting on them; and Steve’s counting on you not to screw this up. Think of what could happen if this guy makes the Germans some kinda’ weapon, you fool. _

“Let us keep talking, Georg, and enjoy our drinks.” He swallows the last gulp of his martini, and gestures at the barman again for another. He tells the man to start a tab.

Baumgartner returns to their conversation, though he keeps his eyes on the barman as he mixes and shakes the drink in the bespoke way he has it prepared. Instead of answering his original question about work, he tells Bucky. “I like to watch them make it.”

“Why? Don’t trust them to make it right?” Bucky half-fakes a laugh.

“Or trust them not to put anything in it.”

Now_ that_ is an idea he can entirely get behind, trust nobody with nothing if you can help it; except the boys of course, though Georg Krause shouldn’t be as a paranoid and cynical as Bucky Barnes is. He’s innocent of that yet - has not learnt that lesson in life.

“You’re a rather paranoid man, aren’t you Mr Baumgartner?” Bucky says.

“I am the right amount of wary for all things.” He counters, “it is something you learn in my profession. It is about security. You never know where the next trick can come in, and so your eyes must always be open.”

He decides to affect the words Jones once said to him. “That is a tough way to live.”

The man hums, eyes flicking back to him and the bartender. “It is a good way not to die. These are complicated times we live in.” He holds his hand out as the barman serves him it, adding what Bucky thinks is a ‘perfect’ in Norwegian. He checks his watch quickly, taking note of the time the same way Bucky did five minutes ago. He clears his throat, looking at Bucky again. “We can’t help but be careful. Like your papers;” he motions to the work folder Bucky arrived with. “A piece of advice Georg, you should not bring that with you next time.”

Bucky clears his throat, instantly wary -_ has he just been sussed? He’s fucked this, hasn’t he - _and he doesn’t even know how. He switches back to the less sly and more direct route to cover it. “Is there going to be a next time?”

“This is a nice place - and you must return to try the other bourbons.” He gestures at Bucky’s glass which is - half empty. _Shit, when did that happen? Did he drink so much? _“I only say this,” Baumgartner says, this time more kindly, “because you have worked hard - you would not want to loose your position if the wrong person got a hold of your officer’s confidential documents.” He lays a hand and slides the folder closer to him, thumb on the edge to open it. Bucky’s hand slaps a stop to it, wary, landing on top of his. Otto catches his eyes and Bucky scrunches his fingers, and then his hand, away - but pulls the file to directly under his armpit.

Otto takes the worry on his face for nervousness of his officer’s reaction if he were to find out _‘Georg’_ had stupidly taken intel to a bar to drink. The man laughs, “I am only teasing.” He touches Bucky for the first time, a pat on the arm. Then - thumb rubbing over the uniform sleeve is all it is, but Bucky swallows; feeling sick as the back of his neck tingles in an unwelcome way.

_Clammy hands under surgical gloves turn his arm at the wrist; limp palms up at the sky; and a latex thumb pushes into the skin to bring up the vein. A needle goes inDon’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me._

He once again takes the sick-expression on Bucky’s face as nervousness. “Do not worry so much, I will not push. You know for future now, yes?”

Bucky nods, regaining control. He makes himself look vulnerable. It’s not hard. “Yes.”

“I have ruined the mood, haven’t I?” Baumgartner says.

“No, no.” Bucky says, “I just, I realized you were right.” He pushes the file further under his arm.

“Have another cigarette, to calm you.” The man nods at him, so Bucky obeys, getting out his pack and explicitly lighting his next one as he did his first. It turns out the same moves for seducing dames also works on grown men - _who would have thought?_ They go over several more questions, and talk - laughing and grinning. The way Baumgartner is looking at him - if anything it’s grown since ‘Georg’ has been put on the back-foot and he’s claimed the power. He talks more and Bucky talks less - switching - and he gains some information on where Baumgartner works and what he does - though nothing that much helps for breaking into the building and getting away scot-free with a high-level prisoner. It’s something though, and Bucky has to work less now he outwardly and inwardly has the man’s attention. When Bucky lifts his glass to sip, or wet his lips as he’s actually doing, the man matches him; drinking until quite a bit of the martini is gone. He likes to find someone to listen to him as much as he likes to be teased. Eventually Bucky, ready to test how far he has him, asks: “Would you mind if I asked you a business question?”

“Depends on the question.”

It’s a question that typically shouldn’t be asked; about backwards promotions. He follows, when the man doesn’t immediately reply, with: “I only meant - with your…profession - you must be used tonever mind.” He says suddenly, shaking his head. He acts embarrassed, having second thoughts. “Thank you for the drink, Mr Baumgartner,” Bucky says, finishing his drink in a gulp, “I should go before I” _embarrass myself further_. He stands as if to go, putting out his cigarette.

The man grabs his wrist, and Bucky barely restrains himself from freezing. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Carter straighten, as if ready to intervene if he’s been blown. He lowers himself back to the stool, makes himself look around at the crowd. He expresses to Carter he’s not in trouble - despite the touch sparking a _get the fuck off me._ When he looks around at the crowd he makes it clear he’s looking worried that someone will see their touching bodies more than anything else.

“It is fine.” Baumgartner says. “Do not worry about them - they do not matter. Stay for longer. You are a nice boy, and there are not many in this city - not many boys and men left.”

“You want me to stay.”

“You are good conversation.” He repeats, and his hand curves around Bucky’s wrist in his lap to cup his inner thigh - which honestly, kind of contradicts the statement._ Somehow I feel like you don’t want me to stay for the conversation, pal. _“You are young, and still gaining your path upwards in the hierarchy - I did it myself once. I understand what you are asking.”

“You could give me advice?” ‘Georg’ asks hopefully, and Bucky forces his body to relax, lowering himself fully on the stool.

“Most certainly.” He removes his hand - but leans in closer and waves the bartender down once the barman is finished with someone else. “Tell me, Georg, do you like wine?”

“I love wine.”

“Red?” Always with clarification with this guy. Bucky nods, so he orders a bottle of very fancy _Moric Blaufränkisch Burgenland_, and two large glasses. Bucky after a moment routes around his pocket for Georg’s money. “No no,” the older man says, “this is on me."

“Certainly not - it wouldn’t be right for a full bottle”

“Don’t you worry about the price,” The man lays an arm on him again. “Though I appreciate the thought. Just drink. Enjoy the evening.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, but stills his hands on the wallet. “And the conversation?”

The man smirks at him as the bartender lays two wine glasses on the bar, on another pair of napkins. “Exactly.”

The bartender pours, and Baumgartner finishes his Martini, and waits for Bucky take his first sip. Then cheers Bucky’s glass with his own. “Thank you for your kindness, Mr Baumgartner.”

“I have let you call me sir and Mr Baumgartner for long enough Georg.” He says, “call me Otto. Only friends drink wine together, as my mother used to say, especially wine as good as this.”

They turn to talking shop - about who they work for, how to progress up the ranks; how Otto did himself - though Bucky notices he never strays from the party line of the German Occupation, and what his real feelings are - even when Bucky risks questioning him on it. Clearly he’s not that stupid, even drunk and to a potential conquest - as Bucky has no doubt that’s what he is - especially one pretending to be a German official. _Guy knows the game._ They move off onto other subjects - a made-up story of a superior that is a _‘real piece of work’_; and Otto declares he should stand up for himself. The man continues to check his watch - quick covert glances that Bucky acts as though he doesn’t notice - and so he knows the time is coming.

He excuses himself to the bathroom. Carter follows him round the corner and then shoves him into an alcove under the stars.

“What are you doing?” She snaps. “It’s nearly time; you can’t go to the bathroom now. The whole point”

“Is to stop him from memorizing and burning them. I know what the point is,” he retorts, his voice slightly pinched. “I’m not actually going to the bathroom, Jesus Christ. I can’t think of a way to distract him without giving myself away if I’m sat _right there_ \- it’ll look too obvious. I’ll go back right as the courier leaves before he opens it - get him to move somewhere else. _Alright_?” She simmers down. “Now would you relax?”

She nods, lets a pause take for a moment. “How are you faring? Drinks wise?”

“Still got a good half bottle left, so we’re doing great thanks.” He snarks at her.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” She replies, “how drunk are you?”

“Lot better than I thought I’d be.”

“Is your judgement impaired?”

“My judgement _needs_ to be impaired to fuckin’ cope with this, Carter.” She sighs in frustration, “I had enough judgement to take a moment to plan this next part, didn’t I? I’m fine.” Bucky continues. “I’m not gonna’ fuck it up this far in, alright?”

“Okay.” She says, hands up and out to calm him. “You’re doing very well, by the way. For only one day’s worth of training.”

“I know I am.” He says, “I always defy expectations out of spite.”

“That sounds familiar, at least.” She mutters, pulls his arm up and glances at the time on his watch.“Four minutes. Right, run me through it.”

He does, quickly, then asks: “Do I mention it when I come back - the delivery, or pretend I don’t notice - or is that more suspicious? He’s a paranoid bastard - won’t even let the barman mix a drink without his eyes on it.”

She thinks a moment as he defers - she’ll know more about this sort of psychological game - plus, you know, she doesn’t have whisky and wine sitting heavy in her stomach. “Mention it - out of curiosity - but let it go. Act drunker than you are, he’s less likely to be suspicious.”

He nods, and she frees him from where she’s trapped him; automatically being out of that small space is better once he can feel free air at his back. He slips back round the corner - she goes the other way to go through the kitchen - and he waits just behind the stairs as Otto swallows more wine, and from the looks of things orders some kind of o’deurve. A glass of water has also appeared on the bar with him. _Well fuck, he’ll have to trick him into leaving that behind too - can’t have him sobering up._

Coming through the main door - a man in a sharp suit and briefcase heads in and makes a beeline for Baumgartner, as though this is a practiced affair. Bucky starts back as the courier passes him an envelope, which Otto immediately ensures is still sealed - and it hasn’t escaped Bucky’s notice that the guy’s armed, and Otto is too. Once assured the courier has not effectively taken a peek - the man leaves, and Otto goes to open it.

“I’m back,” Bucky says, back with his German accent for good measure. “I think this wine is going through me faster than I planned.”

“Ah Georg<strike> ”</strike> The man’s fingers pause on the sealed side.

Bucky pretends not to notice it, and asks; “friend of yours? Does he not want to join us?”

“Working acquaintance.” Otto answers as Bucky sits, “and no, this evening is going well enough just the two of us.”

Bucky grins at him, loose and pretend-drunk, and the wine already in him helps the blush as he takes another sip of his, making himself look pleased at the compliment. It clearly has an effect. “I was thinking,” he adds suddenly as Otto fingers the envelope next to his lap, “as you do in the bathroom, of course.” He rolls his eyes at himself in the way girls he’s gone steady with always used to say was adorably cute, “why don’t we move somewhere more comfortable than these stools. The armchairs perhaps?”

The man glances at them; the collection by a cosy fire that Peggy Carter is conspicuously clearing for them as if by magical timing? A wonderful coincidence. “Yes, why not.”

“Großartig!” Bucky chirps, “ooh, sorry - English, yes. I’ll get the glasses - you get the bottle?” He grabs the glasses and turns his back; walking away.

He catches Carter’s eye as she finishes wiping down - and as they pass she murmurs; “front pocket, good.”

That means he’s tucked it away without opening it for once, and so Bucky heaves out a slow calming breath. He’s done it - now he’s just got to keep distracting him, and get him drunk enough that he forgets to open it _at_ _all_ tonight.

He turns as he sits, and Otto is following him with the bottle in one hand, and ‘Georg’s’ file Bucky deliberately left on the bar, hoping Otto would remember and tuck the envelope away to pick it up, in the other. He tuts as Bucky see’s it, quickly putting the glasses down to grab the file.

“Come on, Georg, you are smarter than this.” He says, shaking his head and chuckling.

Bucky grabs and sits on it. “There. Now no one can get to it.”

Otto laughs, and Bucky grins as the older man tops them up. Bucky leans back, shifting in a slightly provocative way, and shuffles the chair closer to the other - which Otto sits in.

“This is better.” He decides.

“I agree.” Otto says as he settles in the other and cheers his glass against Bucky’s. “I have ordered food - I assume you like bread - and a bit of fish.”

“Almost as much as I love wine.” Bucky answers, “now where were we - oh yes, you were telling me your philosophy for….”

Otto nods, remembering - and continues off from when Bucky excused himself; drinking and leaning closer and closer over the arm of the chair. He finishes mildly with: “Sometimes, to survive…you have to show some teeth.”

Bucky ebulliently replies, “and I’m guessing that yours are_ pretty sharp_.”

Carter clears away the forgotten glass of water from the bar.

_. . ._

_It is my turn now, _Bucky says later at 21:25; _it’s only fair_. He waves Carter down and asks for shots of vodka to keep the alcohol flowing so they don’t meander for the next near hour on the last mouthful of wine. It also works to charm Otto more with how he goes out of his way to order drinks, even on his ‘meager’ wage. Currently Bucky has more Norwegian money on his person than he’s had dollars on him for most of his life.

“I travelled to Romania, before, with my father;” he explains, as Georg is an only child. “It is tradition there to drink as this, in a row - one after another. It is a non-German tradition I have stuck to.” Peggy lays out several shots for them each, in a line of five. Bucky takes the first few in a row with him, and realizes she’s replaced the vodka with water and sugar-cane syrup to disguise the thinner texture for him, while Otto drinks it at full strength. It goes down just as easy as real vodka would have done with how much he drank in Belarus_ while on shift. _He swears he’s starting to think he performs better on his way to intoxication than he does sober - though he has to admit his tolerance has rocketed a few notches up lately. Even compared to Steve he still used to a lightweight - but Steve also didn’t know when to fucking stop - considering every night turned into a competition of how he could hold his drink just as well as the rest of them. The truth was Isabelle could out-drink _all of them._

Later Otto decides he will in-keep with the tradition - which is more a mix of Russian tradition and his mother’s Easter tradition. On their last family trip to his Aunt Millicent’s, when he was just about old enough and when they were on friendly terms for a while; she challenged Bucky to drink seven shots of gin, a lucky number, and then spin in a circle. Then challenged him again. It was terrible - and by Gin Number Three in the middle of Round Two he was curled up on the wooden deck bench, blind and dizzy, feeling horrendously sick. Two of his cousins, Dougie and Tommy, one older and one younger had slipped out with them to the garden, and the elder had gone to sleep in a flower bush. Aunt Millicent would kill him when she saw her crushed flowers. His father had walked outside from the kitchen after Thomas, who called it at Gin Four and no more, had stumbled in.

He’d looked at Bucky and started laughing.

_“You too, huh lad? She got me on our fourth date. You are not the first, you will not be the last.” He hollars from deep in his belly, and grins at Bucky’s ma, or Bucky presumes he grins from the smile evident in his voice. His ma is humming to herself and dancing, alone and free, further along the deck - or she was when Bucky dropped. He thinks she’s still dancing. God he feels awful - why did he think gin was a good starter drink. “She can hold her _ _liqueur__, can your mother. Did she bait you?”_

_“He baited me, trying to steal my booze. So I let him have it.” His ma calls _ _across__, and there’s a tappety tap tap tappety tappet as she must do some sorta’ _ _complicated_ _ spinning step. His father laughs, and there’s the sound of them coming together as she spins and he _ _catches_ _her. “And now -” she says as his pop dips her, “he is paying the price.”_

_“I can see that.” His pop says, and there’s the sound of them smooching. Uh, yuck._

_From the sudden laugh he thinks he may have said that out loud. Did he say that out loud? It doesn’t matter - it’s still yuck, even if he’s overheard them doing other stuff in the apartment together before. It’s still, and always will be, yuck. His ma plops herself down on the bench by his head, and he groans. She laughs lightly, and threads a hand in his hair._

_ “Considering he’s lived with me for fifteen years,” she says to his father, “you’d have thunk’ he’d know better.”_

_“You would.” His father agrees._

_“Why ar’ you all against me? Someone‘s supposed to be on my side. Screw you Dougie,” He grumbles at his snoring compatriot in the bush. He gets nothing back from him or his parents aside from sleep snuffles and more _ _amusement_ _. “’ot helpin’.”_

_”I know, I know - we’re terrible terrible parents.” His mother says, tugging on his hair - god that feels so good. “Whatever will you do?”_

_“Look after us in our old age, I’d hope.” His pa jokes, before turning to Bucky and leaning over him. “Now come on, let’s get you to bed.”_

_“No.” Bucky mumbles into his closed arms, head trapped under his elbows. “’eave me alone, I’ll sle’p ‘ere.”_

_“On the patio bench half outside? Where your grandmother can come and jiggle your cheeks like you’re a toddler again?” His nana’s memory hasn’t been the same for a while, and her behaviour has become more erratic and more bewildering over this last few visits. She acts like he and Becca are the twins’ age instead of a near full grown sixteen. He’s nearly sixteen, did ya know?_

_“She can’t get up the stairs to the bedroom if you're up there.” His ma offers as an incentive in a far too giddy mood._

_“I…hate that you’re right.” Bucky slurs._

_“Come on, big man. Up we get - time to sleep it off.” His father heaves him off the bench under his armpits - just like he did when he saved Bucky from his dream seven years later._

Bucky comes back to himself after another two shots; this time of real vodka - with what accounts to four or five whiskeys and a two-thirds of a bottle of red wine in him despite his best efforts, a little fuzzy; as Otto’s hand slides up his leg.

“You are a corrupting influence.” He says to Bucky, who forces the tenseness down as Otto’s thumb begins rubbing circles there - _get off get off get off._ He takes Bucky’s tenseness, drunk as he is; Bucky hopes by now _(Jesus Christ how much can this guy drink_), as erotic surprise most likely from the way he grins at him; admiring and proud of himself.

Bucky plays to that tune. “You only live once - right?”

The problem is Otto didn’t order shots on his turn - he ordered a whole bottle, pouring himself - so Carter can’t intervene in watering down the drinks anymore. _Shit_ \- she gives him a sly warning look from the bar - _but I’m sorry, what the fuck is he supposed to do?_

He’s not a lightweight fifteen year old anymore, he reminds himself - he’s built up his stomach - even if the bread o’derve didn’t do much, considering he’d felt too queasy from the hand that has been systematically slithering up his inner thigh since they sat down, to eat much. It’s fine - his ma taught him well. He can handle the drink - he’s handling it better than he thought he would do already - if it weren’t for the constant shots; he thinks on his real fourth - he can probably feel himself sobering up. He could feel it as he was coming towards the end of the wine if he’s honest. He’s good. He’s great. He’s not going to screw this up.

They continue well into the night - and Bucky - Bucky manages to get him talking - admitting to stuff the guy really shouldn’t be voicing out loud let alone telling _him_. He’s not entirely sure how he’s accomplished this - but he has - and he learns that the main security measures are on the third floor on the West side of the building - a.k.a the prisoner cells. He learns Otto’s delegating underling, Ernest Fischer, who handles the day to day, is on shift tomorrow and Otto hates him - he hates him with a passion that cannot be classed within human description. His secretaries name is Liza - and she is the only one he is fond of and actually thinks is worth something. When Bucky asks if there’s anyone there who _is_ competent at their job, i.e _who should we watch out for when we break in_, Otto laughs and gives a list. Two of them are highly effective - but are not men Otto trusts.

_Why did they send you from Oslo to Bergen, if I can ask that?_

“You can ask anything you like, Georg, any man can - so long as they are prepared for the consequence of the answer.” He answers, “I was sent to as you say, regulate construction on…” He clears his throat.

“On what?”

“A new development of the Reich.” He shares.

“Can I dare to ask where?”

“Again you can - but I will not tell you. That is not for you to know - well beyond your position, and your ambassador’s position even. No more.” He wags a finger at him, and so Bucky backs off so he doesn’t get suspicious, so they start talking experiences - and Bucky explains what it’s like to jump from a plane; as that’s part of all airborne training - so is clear for him to speak on. He broaches more questions, more carefully - and gets more answers.

Like a sick game; with each answer given Bucky lets the man touch him more as a treat. It continues to work and Bucky continues to feel clammy and sick - but with real vodka in him now. It helps. As Otto shifts closer _again _and Bucky slants more into the armchair; he hears a key clang against it’s chain underneath his jacket. _Right_ _side_ \- Bucky notes_, the set of keys are on his right side and the pass-code envelope; unopened, lays in his right breast pocket_.

As the man has gotten drunker, Bucky has noticed that while he prefers bold and forwardness while sober, he prefers the opposite when inebriated. And so Bucky smiles, and flirts back, bashful, so Otto feels like he’s the one in control. Then he widens his eyes at the lecherous minister and emphasizes the accent he’s been carrying for maximum naive effect, insists on doing another round of multiple vodka shots.

“It’s a celebration, is it not? Us meeting.” _He likes that,_ Bucky sees. “It’s tradition that we get drunk together. Wouldn’t you like that, ‘with me?” He emphasizes the last two worlds with a slide of the hand when he passes the man the shot. Otto necks it, as does Bucky. Cater approaches the table with her tray; and the man retreats the hand trailing up Bucky’s leg and arm despite the fact she could probably seen his hands _all fucking over_ Bucky from a mile away. How the hell has this guy managed to get away with this for so long if he behaves in this way in public?

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” She asks in the carefully practiced Norwegian he knows she totally doesn’t speak outside of several certain phrases.

Otto answers the negative - and with a sly movement as she bends down to clear part of the table, Bucky distracts him by knocking his arm with the vodka bottle as he pours again - and Carter unclips the recording bug from where she stuck it under the table. She’s already gotten the one by the bar, he thinks - not that he saw her do it. She’s so fast and inconspicuous, like _seriously_. She’s played it so well - where Bucky designed himself to stick out - she’s maneuvered herself to blend in. In fact, he’s pretty sure most of the customers including Otto haven’t even looked at her once.

The approach and the removal of the bug is a hint, he knows, and when he turns and thanks her in German she emphasizes ‘_stop_’ at the vodka, and _‘bring it to a close, you’ve done enough._’

They do another shot together, and then Bucky makes it obvious he’s looking at the clock.

“Look,” he says, emphasizing the accent, “I am going to be forward - show some teeth<strike> ”</strike> Otto laughs, loudly, and _yep _\- that’s his hand on his knee again - _fuck Bucky’s life, so much for a break _\- “but it’s getting late, and, you did say you have to get up early - so…” He bites his lower lip, leaning in closer. He smiles.

“So…” Otto prompts.

“So…are you really going to make me ask?”

Otto leans back, slurs. “I might.”

“You have a room upstairs. My accommodation is halfway across the city. Would you like to tell me the room number - and - we could finish<strike> ”</strike> he flourishes the vodka bottle still in his hand, “in your room? Together.”

Otto practically purrs at him. “I would like that.”

Bucky grins shit-eating at him - “I knew I was right.”

Otto laughs, “you have a good eye<strike>”</strike> he compliments, “as do I.” He looks Bucky up and down wantonly, and jerks his head in a go-on gesture. Bucky covers any expression and stands with the half drunk bottle - he stumbles a little - but purposely makes the stumble more pronounced - and laughs. He walks with enough distance so as not to be conspicuous of two men leaving - to go to fucking bed -_together_\- but not far enough that Otto might take the moment to pull out the pass-codes and burn them. From the eyes that Bucky can feel on his ass he’s gonna’ guess he’s way too drunk for that - considering the guy was going cross-eyed when he followed the movement of Bucky standing. The heavy gait follows him - going to the bar and slapping a pile of money down to pay for the left-over tab.

Carter crosses his path - right as he starts panicking about how the hell he’s going to get out of this without bludgeoning the guy or killing him - _how is he going to - he’s not going to do this - he’s not. He’s not a fairy, he’s oh god. _He can feel the panic come hurtling right the way back in at the idea of this man’s hands on him outside of public scrutiny. She slides a vial into his pocket; he feels the weight drop - and somehow just knows she’s come to his rescue in this.

“Put it in the vodka.” She mumbles in French. _And_**_you_**_ don’t drink it you bloody tool_, goes unsaid. Somehow they’re suddenly up the stairs where Bucky waits as Otto unlocks the hotel door at the bottom of the corridor, and then; when he’s sure no one is looking - follows him into the room where he has already closed the curtains.

He knows as soon as enters that an uninvited hand will slide up him with an exhaled breath of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat.

He knows what the man wants when he looks at him. He steps over the threshold anyway.

Otto is pulling out new fresh glasses from the sideboard, and Bucky with the bottle offers to pour them. Otto lets him, watching closely as he did with the barman - pressing up close - hand on the small of Bucky’s back. His breath warms and tickles the back of Bucky’s neck -_ anda second hand joins._

The vodka spills, sluicing over the edge of one of the short glasses, splashing onto polished wood.

His hand slaps down; clamping onto Otto’s wrist over his groin. He’s ready to break the fucking thing.

“Nervous?” Otto asks from behind. Bucky’s stomach shrivels up as he starts cupping. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

“Yeah well”he clears his throat sharply as he realizes the accent has slipped with his shock. He forces it back in, but his voice still comes out a shade of wrong. “I amnot so used to doing this<strike> "</strike>

“Really? All a front?” Otto slurs mildly, swaying into Bucky.”You were very _frem_.” Bucky’s going to presume that means forward, or confident, or pushy or one of the many many things Bucky actually isn’t. “God, you’re a _Kjekk_-looking one, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” He asks, turning with the two glasses. Unlike what he’d hoped - the second hand does not move aside for even a stationary moment. Where Otto sways a little too much away - the hand sways with Bucky - about to squee

Like a train hurtling down the track - there’s a rush - and then a bearded, disheveled man in tattered clothes and blood-smeared elbows is slamming onto the carpet with a silent thud.

_Git yer hauns aff him, ye twat. He's wi' me._

_Andrew. Andy. An--help me, help me--_

_This ain’t real._ Andrew says, taking a ethereal step forward. He looks both furious - like he did on his rampages when he was high - and entreating.

“You’re not real.”

“Of course I’m real, Georg. I’m right here in front of you.” The hand compresses. His lungs start tightening.

_Dinnae’t look at him. Look at me._ Unable to resist Bucky’s eyes go over Otto’s shoulder, and he’s looking right at his Andy. He can see the flicker of gold in the hazel of his Andrew’s eyes as clear as anything. The first time he noticed that colour in them, he remembers, was on their twentieth day together, but seventh _night_ together. Seventh, of course, _seven is a lucky number. Seven is __sacred_. Bucky had woken on the cot; yellow dawn streaming over them through their tiny window, to Andrew in his arms; and when he’d woken too, curling into Bucky’s chest - it was the first time he’d seen him in real-life full light before. His sunken eyes, despite how awful he looked, glinted like they were glowing. They glow now. _If yer dinnae want it tae be real, it doesn't hae tae be. So its nae. Go somewhere safe. _

Something in him knows exactly what he means by _safe._ Safe is when everything is calm and peaceful - and there’s no input. Things like this can’t hurt him when they can’t touch him; because he’s gone somewhere safe.

_Can safe be with you?_

_If y'll want it tae. Whatever’s real tae ye is real tae me. That’s whit matters. _

He starts before he can stop; feels something in him start to fog; the background outside of Andrew, standing right there with him, fades to a blur. Otto fucking Baumgartner fades to a blur._ Who is he again? Why is he here, again, before, after? When?_ The light catches the gold in Andrew’s eyes - detail tightens on the lit lampshade behind Andy. It’s cream, with gold leaf inlay, ending with steeped arches; and tassels dangle below it. It’s something Sarah would have liked if she could afford such a thing; and his ma would have liked if it were in a brighter colour - a rose pink, a red, a blue. Colour. The other colour of Andrew’s figure is the dark red layered over his grey skin. He looks sicker, here, than he did in Scotland. Maybe because Bucky feels just as sick right now... There was a lot of blood on his skivvies. He comes back.

_You’re dead. _Bucky tells him. _You can’t protect me._

_Ah can, and ah will. Go. Be safe. Git out of here. Yeir mere important._

_Not in the war. You’re dead. You’re dead._

_I’m not_ \- Steve’s voice now says from somewhere in the back of his head, _I’m here with you, across the city, waiting_; and Peggy Carter’s voice comes to -_ I’m right down the __corridor__. Put it in the vodka._

_Go somewhere safe_, Andy orders him, _you need tae feel safe. This isn’t safe - let me---_

_You can do this, _Steve believes, full of conviction. _I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable - but you can do this._

_Don’t be a pinostan, pinostan._

and then_ back._ “Sorry.” Bucky apologizes. He can feel himself starting to shake so keeps himself talking; handing Otto the glass. “Any more advice for me,” he gestures to the room, “before we begin.”

_Jay---_

_Stay with me,_ he orders Andrew silently, so he does, hovering just behind him and dying to strangle the life out of the man in front of _them. Together, forever._

_To the end of the line._

_I’m coming back to you, Mush. I’m coming back._

“Only one thing.” Otto says, cheers-ing him before taking a gulp, swallowing down the back of this throat. Bucky wets his lips and pretends to swallow. He sidesteps out of the way so he’s not blocked in by Otto and the sidebar, and the man follows him; backing him towards the bed. The clear vial is empty in his pocket, and it remained clear when Bucky poured it into the bottle whilst in the corridor. _Otto __Baumgartner always watches his drinks being made._

“I should relax?” He guesses, blinking; the sudden feeling of drowsiness coming over him.

“Yes.” Otto agrees, laughing. “But also - the world is your… bright white oyster, as they say. So long as you know where to put” The back of Bucky’s knees hit the bed; and suddenly his butt is on it - yelping as Otto squeezes his front. Knife in his boot, knife in his boot. “The_ pressure._”

“Yeah…that’s…easier said than done.”

“A lo’ of m’n, and w’m’n<strike>”</strike> he adds as an afterthought, slurring a lot, “find a direc’ m’n irr... rres’table. You should lean int’ that ‘n your life ‘s well ‘s your work.” He leans in closer to Bucky’s ear, bending over - then slurs: “You can practice on me.”

Bucky leans himself back so he can look at the man. His lips feel wet and_ very _numb. “You want me to be direct.” He confirms, and opens his mouth to - he doesn’t know what to say. Otto’s eyes roll up in his sockets, and Bucky jerks sharply sideways as he falls face first on the bed; dead to the world.

He jolts sharply to the towel hanging on the door and frantically wipes his mouth and lips off. He smacks them a couple of times - they still feel numb - but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pitch over - unless, of course, he decides to pitch himself of a roof tonight. _Now that’s an idea. _He makes sure the door is locked - then sinks to the floor - knees up and wall at his back. He puts his head between his legs and makes himself breathe - every spot touched on his body aching with a clammy heat he doesn’t want. _Just take a moment, take a breather lad_ \- he reminds himself, old words used on him after a rough session at Goldie’s, and words he adopted himself when he was training Steve to join up many months ago.

_Still here,_ Andy promises, crouching. _Ah’ms also still dead as a doornail._

He starts crying with laughter for a moment, his head so dizzy and - he’s drunk and a little drugged - but he did it. He didn’t fuck it up. _You’re not done yet._

He levers his head up from him knees, and watches the man; face mushed into the coverlet; breathing heavily. _You should probably move him so he doesn’t suffocate_, a far away voice in his head says, and he notes; _yes, I probably should _\- and then everything just - it fades. 

tick

tock _where am I?_

He blinks and he’s in the same position. Feeling numb and fuzzy, his head moves to look at his watch. _Did he just - did he just loose time?_ He thinks he did. He’s alone.

_Otto Baumgartner is still face-down and his breathing is a lot heavier and fuzzed out. The body gets up as Bucky Barnes is still blinking, and the body moves forward and heaves the man onto his back - then his side. The body fishes into the _ _unconscious_ _man’s jacket pocket and retrieves the _ _envelope__ \- then retrieves the set of keys chained to his belt, tucked under his jacket and shirt to sit in a inside pocket. Carter was right - no way a brush-by could have got this off him. The body folds opens Bucky Barnes’ file, and flicks past the fake documents Steve wrote up to the back - peeling back the edge of the inner pocket - and retrieves the _ _several_ _ sticks of pre-cut putty. He unclips all the keys - and presses each one into the putty on both sides - and marks them all up so they know what’s what - pressing down into them on the sideboard with the weight of the body. He clips them back on the chain and returns them under the shirt, jacket and into the internal pocket. The body sits on the floor - cross-legged, fishing out the knife from it’s boot - and very carefully, over a long time, cuts the glue out from under the _ _envelope’s_ _ sticky edge without tearing the paper. The outside is _ _entirely_ _ blank - and inside as he slides it out is a series of letters and numbers. _

_O_ _ \- 4548- 788-2 M - 3337-826 -1 B - 2914-326 -0_

_The body does not register or try to understand them - it writes them down on the border of the manila file next to the contents page, then retrieves it’s flask and tips it over the _ _empty_ _ spout until the stick of glue falls out. It returns the pass-codes to their envelope and reseals it all - then back in the right breast pocket. The body stands, and it slides each of the complete putty impressions back into Bucky Barnes’ file pocket._

_ The body does the rest - heaving the target further up the bed and messing up the _ _bed-sheets_ _ and pillows - it sheds the man of his jacket and unbuttons his shirt - takes one shoe off. The person inside the body shrinks away further as the body undoes the buttons on the target’s trousers - and comes back closer when it throws half a blanket over the target. The body drops the jacket on the floor - and picks up the spilled glass of vodka. The person inside the body returns to let itself feel when in the bathroom, splashing water on it’s face. _

The water wakes Bucky up - and in the hotel room everything is almost perfect. He walks back to the beside table and fishes out a napkin from his pocket - scribbles a quick message to further avoid suspicion.

_I had a lovely evening, though I think we may have had too much to drink. I am staying at the Rosenkrantz. G_

If Baumgartner decides to further the connection he made with Georg - by the time he goes to the Rosenkrantz Bucky and Georg will be long gone.

He turns the lights off and closes the door - then crosses the hallways and goes down a set of stairs with his file and own hotel key - letting himself into room thirty four. He’s greeted with quiet sardonic applause. He snaps his head up and grimaces immediately at his spinning head, realizing it’s just Carter - finished from her shift and waiting for him.

“Ow.” He says, mostly because he’s pretty sure the red wine and vodka is catching up with him. Peggy hands him a bucket so he sticks his fingers down his throat for a tactical vomit. “Sorry.” He mutters after, considering he should probably apologize for spewing in front of a beautiful dame.

“Don’t be. I’m congratulating you - you’ve got a lot more balls than I gave you credit for.”

Bucky dry-heaves, “Please don’t say the word balls again.”

“Ah.” She utters, noticing the faux-pas, and looks vaguely apologetic - or at least, her mouth slashes down in a vaguely apologetic way. Probably as close as he’s going to get. “Sorry.” She adds after, surprising him. He seats himself on the bed - then sticks his finger back down his throat again for good measure - he feels a little too out of control still - needs to get _him_ back. The hotel room has been untouched so far, and very professionally cleaned - so everything is ordered and in place._ Good, good._ He vomits twice more - Carter, waiting, hands him a handful of napkins she’s carrying in the pocket of her apron.

“Thanks,” he mutters wiping his mouth and pawing at his numb lips. “What the fuck was in that vial Carter, Jesus Christ.”

“Effective, was it?” She smirks.

“Could have used a bit warning, honestly, but_ yeah_.” He utters, rubbing his head and mussing up his hair.

“You were gone a while, I thought you’d have been back sooner.”

He coughs, closing his eyes as he lowers the bucket; he hasn’t checked the time. “Was setting up the room. Took longer than I thought to get it right.”

“Fair enough. Any other phrase-words off the table, for the record?” She asks, sitting beside him. “Dick, willy, knob, tackle,” Bucky groans, Carter doesn’t stop; “pecker, todger, johnson? Because if not - that man seemed to be a bit of a cock.”

“_You are not funny_.” Bucky tells her. She hums at him in a way that tell him she doesn’t believe him. “I know what you’re doing - trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“No. I reckon Dum Dum’s rubbing off on you in the wrong way too much though, if todger and Johnson are part of your vocabulary now.” She rolls her eyes. “Did you get everything you need?” He asks, meaning the bugs she put in place.

“That and more.” She replies approvingly. “Did you get anything else after you left the bar?”

“Other than a invert reputation, you mean?” He snarks while not actually joking. “Unless you count the urge to spew and strangle him with the bed-sheets if he touched me again - not really no.”

She grimaces, and that at least seems definitely sincere. “You did incredibly well…better than I even thought you’d do. And I had high hopes.”

Bucky grimaces at the floor, “well…thanks...I guess.”

“You should be--”

“Carter if you say I should be proud, Steve’s girl or not, I will throw you out the window.”

She laughs a little. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Yes, you’re a self-proclaimed battle-axe, I know.”

There’s a long moment of silence; and out of her jacket she pulls a cigarette.

“I don’t like the taste.” Bucky admits when she offers it; though she may already know that from how many cigarettes she’s seen him trade away in Continental Europe.

“To calm your nerves then.” She gestures - so he takes it. “Do you need to throw up again?” He shakes his head. “Then I’ll dispose of this, if you don’t mind.” The bucket by his feet disappears, and he sinks to the floor - then gets up to open the window and sit by it while the water begins to run in other room. He pulls aside the curtain, careful not to catch his cigarette on the fabric, and goes to balance against the sill - smoking. The fresh, almost sea air helps ground him more than the cigarette does when he feels himself begin to fade again. He’s getting better at noticing the signs.

“Sergeant Barnes?” Carter calls as she re-enters the main room. He realizes the curtains are so thick and overhanging that he’s practically disappeared from the rest of room. He calls out so she knows he’s by the window - and he hears her hum; and then begin pulling apart the file for the putty-key impressions to get made.

“The pass-codes are in code - by the way.” He calls through - “at least I think they are - otherwise they’d be pretty difficult to memorize that length every three days.”

“We have a couple of potential ciphers. With any luck I should have them broken by tomorrow or the day after.”

“Tomorrow?” He huffs a short laugh he doesn’t feel. “Who needs sleep, right?”

“Exactly.”

After a couple of minutes the seam on the curtains part and she joins him in the three foot space by the window. She holds out her hand, requesting a drag from the cigarette. He huffs, and half scoffs sarcastically. “Would you like a drag of the cigarette Queen Carter? Why yes, Sergeant Barnes, I would love one, thank you.”

She merely rolls her eyes and takes it - inhaling a long drag, then leans forward to breathe the cloud of smoke outside. The streetlights are still on - which is honestly bizarre to Bucky now - so used to pitch blackness of nights on battlefronts and the black-outs of cities. There’s not even barrage balloons up above them. He supposes Norway isn’t in the line of fire for constant plane routes and bomb drops. The lights reflect off the line of triangular dwellings, painted in reds, mustards and whites.

“I know you said the word proud is off-limits--”

“ window Carter." Bucky warns.

“But you really did do incredibly well. I don’t give compliments easilyor all that often. So take that to heart at least - you’re a natural.”

“I’m never doing this again.” Bucky tells her, “it was a one-time offer then, and it is now.”

“All I’m saying is - you might as well make yourself useful by doing things you are good at - and you, as I saw tonight, are good at more than just shooting through a scope.”

“_Excuse _**_you_**, I do more than just shooting through a scope. Try shootin’_ without_ a scope, or has the Jacques’ _sniper-savant _nickname passed by your notice?”

“It has not.” She allows; “though you have been thoroughly tested in that field, and have _not_ in this one.” She pauses a moment, and purses her lips, considering.“What if it was just intelligence gathering - no honeytrap or Romeo basis - what then?”

“No. _Carter_.”

She sighs in exasperation. “You can hardly blame me for shopping when I see potential. And I believe we have an agreement of a first name basis if you bothered to remember.”

“Peggy.” Bucky corrects half-earnestly. “There’s a lot that you can’t be blamed for.”

It’s said sarcastically, but he doesn’t mean it - as she’s not actually to blame, even if the positions she’s put in make it seem as though she is. Everything is always life-or-death, on the verge of destruction, world annihilation _etc era__etc era -_ and that’s not actually on her. She just catches the flack.

He looks down at the smoldering end of the cigarette; wondering if it would feel any different if he drove it into his own arm instead of a Hydra goon doing it.

It would surely be worse - because once he crosses that line there’s no going back.

“Sergeant?” Peggy asks, “are you alright?”

Bucky takes a moment before he groans. “Why does everyone keep fucking asking me that?” He sighs. “How do you do it? This stuff - you act like you’ve done it before…”

“I have and haven’t - I’ve never had it lead further past what yours did tonight; I suppose I just... ”

“Close your eyes and think of your country?”

“That is - the essentials of what they teach you, admittedly,” she confesses. “But if I don’t do what I have to do - it means more people in the future are going to pay for it worse than a couple of stray hands here or there. I go in with other avenues if there is the option to - but sometimes there isn’t. That’s my motivation though. It doesn’t have to be yours.”

“Them touching you… it’s…”

“Revolting, invasive, frustrating, - _bloody god-awful;_ all of the above? Yes. I agree. You have to find the compromise to how far it goes.”

“And your comprise?”

“A kiss, maybe a touch past acceptable… if they go for my brassiere - they won’t be conscious by the time they reach the clip. I’m quite firm about it.” After a pause she has to admit, “at the moment.”

“Is that why you stopped with Steve?”

Peggy pauses, and looks vaguely uncomfortable. “He told you about that?”

Bucky nods, looking out at the sky with his head against the window. “He was very respectful.”

“Of course he was.” Carter responds, not actually sounding put out by it after he’s given her a moment to process. “And we were in the middle of base, Sergeant, not a private bedroom. It would hardly be appropriate.”

Bucky glances at her, knowing full well that _how far it did go _can hardly be classed as appropriate for work either.

“Shut it.” Peggy Carter tells him primly, and he can’t help but smile into the cool glass, amused. His lips sink downward again, “can I ask - you said ‘at the moment’. Your comprise could change?”

“It could.” She admits softly after a moment, “I can’t say it wouldn’t…since It…might be different in a few years time, after I’ve….”

“After you’ve what?”

“My perspective could change. Maybe. Perhaps. When I’m older.”

Those are quite a few short sentences, in quite short consecutive order.

“Carter…” Bucky questions, reading between the lines, “by older… do you mean more experienced? As in - with the experience.”

“I mean older.” She switches defensively whilst simultaneously looking vaguely impressed that he’s picked up on _that. _He’s a people person, what can he say. “When I’m more experienced as espionage.”

“Okay.” Bucky allows easily. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” Peggy cuts in.

“Not<strike> "</strike> he heaves out a breath, closing his eyes. “It just is. No judgement, you know? I’m not about that shit.”

“You were jealous for a while.” Peggy counters frankly, sitting on the sill too. “I know you were, don’t you think that’s a little judgemental?”

“Just because I was jealous doesn’t mean I judged you, Carts.”

“Don’t call me Carts.” She tells him, so he calls her it again. She sighs in abject frustration. “So you admit it.”

He shrugs vaguely. “You’re kinda a lot to be jealous of.” He admits, “I’ve never had to share Steve before. It was kinda’.. kinda’ new there, for a while.”

“My type of relationship with him is hardly the same type of relationship as yours.”

Bucky pauses, taking those words in. She’s a dame, Steve’s a guy, Bucky’s the pal. Just like Steve’s been the pal when Bucky’s been the guy and Colette, and Dot, and Charlie were the dame. _Except Bucky doesn’t just do it with dames anymore, does he?_

“Right..no yeah.” He says quietly, “you’re right.”

“I happen to know you’ve tried to set him up many a time - I hardly see how you could do that if you were unwilling to ‘share’; like we agreed to.”

“Well…I guess I’d never considered they’d be important enough to him to need to share.”

“Are you suggesting you sabot”

“No, no of course not. I wanted him to find someone, always have…but…you don’t know how your going to feel until you feel it, you know?”

She watches him a moment, then nods, “I do. It can…very much surprise you.”

“That’s love for you.”

“Maybe don’t use that word yet.”

He huffs a snort into the window, steaming it up with condensation. “Uh-huh, sure Carter. Well - I’m speaking for myself at least. Kay? How ‘bout we go with that?”

Silence, tense in no way at all, takes and holds for a moment. Bucky can hear seagulls. He looks up at the sky, and _Boötes_ is the easiest one to find; so then he gets bored and looks for the biggest and brightest star. He thinks his window is facing the wrong direction. _You reckon that’s the North Star?_

_“No.” Andrew replies flatly, and smacks at Bucky’s chest until he looks at him - he knows all of Bucky’s bluffs too. He says, serious-like, “I won’t forget ye tomorrow. I’m coming back.”_

“What are you thinking?” Peggy asks. 

_Andrew kisses him against his bristly throat, noses at his ear from behind; hugging him close. Bucky strains his neck back to return the kiss under his chin, twisting his face into the crook of Andrew's neck. He smells like carbolic soap - and...and __love__._

_"Keep going." Andrew says when the thought catches and he pauses in surprise._

_It's not really an order, but Bucky obeys as __his guy_ _focuses on slicking up his hand, and then especially his fingers with what little they have. Bucky litters his neck with kisses, then his arms, nuzzling him. Andrew moans out a sigh at the bite, other hand clenching around his ribs, open palmed. A hand brushes against his groin, slick with spit, it tugs a couple of times, massaging. Bucky moans,_ _oh yeah, because fuck me, he's already way past hard; and so is Andrew. He can feel the pressure; erect, near the small of his back._

_"You pulling a sword on me in the dark, there?" He can't help it._

_Andrew laughs, "You're terrible, that was - fuckin' terrible, you **asshole**."_

_Bucky returns it. "Just saying, you gonna stick me with it good, aren't ya, so I_ _ _ _"_

_"That's_ _worse__, how did you ever get a lass with lines as shit as those?"_

_Bucky captures him in another backwards kiss. "My face." He answers._

_Andrew considers that, cocking his head, then considers_ _him__, framing his face with his other hand. He leans in for a quick peck, Bucky returns it, rubbing his other hand over Andrew's bearded jaw, bringing them closer. "Yea' alright," he admits, taking a breath when Bucky pushes his luck on making the kiss deeper. "Good fuckin' point."_

_Bucky opens his mouth, about to spin a, '__are you calling me handsome, good kind sir__'_ _ _ _right as Andrew tugs making perfect eye contact, and the words die…_ _._

.…._Andrew's other hand threads through his too-long hair; and he pushes forwards and _**_**in.**_**_They become truly one._

_It's beautiful._

“That I’m tired.” He replies, “…Do you know anyone, who, um, who has - you know, gone all the way?”

“In this situation? I've... I’ve heard of a few…” Carter admits uncomfortably after a while, “Antonio has with female targets, it’s possible he has done it with others too. It wouldn’t surprise me… but I wouldn’t ask that of anyone else when I’m not willing to myself, that’s why I said….”

_Off the bat it wouldn’t go that far. _

Bucky hums.

“And as for why everyone keeps asking you if you’re alright - Perhaps it’s because you are doing an entirely _shit _job of making your friends actually believe you."

The sentence is abrupt and honest; her coarse language almost makes him laugh again; coming from such polished English ancestry. It’s the same feeling as when he hears Monty swear, no matter how many times he curses when catching a bullet to the ass. “Strangers, it seems, are apparently not a problem. But people who know you - _they know you, Bucky_.”

That’s the first time she’s actually called him that name, despite her insistence on him calling her by her first name for Steve’s sake.

“You don’t know me that well, Peggy.”

She turns to face him. Bucky lets out a long exhale of smoke. “I know you enough that I know you aren’t fit for combat.”

Bucky’s lungs stop working mid-breath - and he hacks awkwardly at the smoke still caught inside them, gasping for air with his heart thudding in his chest. Peggy waits. She’s right, he knows she’s right - this was exactly what he was worried about - but until recently he’s been up half his nights, and his thoughts do come slower sometimes, and his balance does step out from under him occasionally too. _He’s fighting fit, but he’s not ‘fighting’ fit._

That he’s getting better doesn’t make the dread shrink any less inside of him hearing it, or what could come of it if he..if he gets sent home.

_You can’t do that_. Andrew says from somewhere, returned in more than memory. Bucky feels balanced on that tightrope again. He said once that he couldn’t watch Steve die, and how he wanted to go home but didn’t know how to do it; sat with his feet in freezing river water. He’d also said that he couldn’t leave his best guy in this fight without Bucky there to protect him.

The idea of waiting useless at home for Steve to get delivered back to him in a wooden box is incomprehensible - especially as it would be a glorified box for Captain America, and not Bucky’s Steve-shittin-spitfire-Rodgers. It makes him wonder if the gravestone would even say _Cpt. Steven Rodgers, died in service for his country._ Or would it say _Here lies Captain America, who gave in his life in the quest for freedom._ He can’t, he can’t. He has to convince Steve’s dame not to pass her thoughts along to Colonel Philips somehow. If she hasn’t already. He has to stay.

Peggy Carter, in an act that tells him she fucking loves to surprise him says:

“Neither is Dugan.” Her voice is calm and very frank when she sees his coughing fit has finished. “Or Falsworth honestly, or Dernier physically; when he first got out of Krausberg. You weren’t then either; though you’ve regained your strength. Steve isn’t - and that I think you know already, with some of the doubts he’s been having.”

Bucky frowns at her - _Steve’s having…?_

“_I’m_ not.” She finishes. “And yet here we are - still out in the field - because we can be unfit by technicality - but they’ll still send us out and give us orders because we’re useful. They do it at the front - give you a couple of days rest and restitution and then off you go, back to bullets. Only the worse cases are sent home.”

“And I’m a worse case - that’s what your saying. Listen--”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying yes, you’re unfit - but you’re still useful - and as long as you…” She sighs, and says softly. “I’m not here to tell you to abandon him, Bucky. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I don’t have the clearance for one.” She elbows him softly in the side, and takes the lighter from his hand to read it. She huffs a brief bark of laughter and returns it to him.

“I’m going to tell you something classified,” she says abruptly. “If you mention it to anyone, I’ll be in a good deal of trouble. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.” His voice comes out scratchy from the smoke and the coughing, nothing like the smooth dulcet tones he’s been employing all evening.

“I was the agent who recovered Erksine. I was undercover there for several weeks in 1940. I knew Schmidt, and I knew Zola. I witnessed his early attempts to replicate Abraham’s work.”

Bucky’s pulse speeds up, stutters; just at the mention of the name. “You know what he did to me.”

She shakes her head. “I know what he _wanted_ to do to you, which means he failed. I can also imagine how living through something like that might effect you - and considering that... you are holding up admirably. Your team is there to help you--”

“I already said this to Monty.” Bucky interrupts, “Maybe two of you will actually pass it on. _What people need to do_ \- is stop telling me all the different ways I can handle this - how I’m not doing well enough; shoving it in my face all the goddamn time. That’s what people need to do - including you, including Steve, inincluding all the boys.” He takes a moment to breathe, words sticking on his tongue as they always do when he _tries._ “Jacques isn’t so bad - but the rest of them... "

“If they don’t stop you’ll throw them out a window?”

“Looks like were on the same page for once.”

“I think you’ll find Bucky, we’re actually on the same page a lot more than you realize. They just want to help you.”

“They’re not,” he tells her truly and honestly, listening to a seagull squawk a series of caws in the distance. “Helping me that is. It’s making it worse; making me riled up._ I_ am helping me, and I need them to let me do that. If I think I’m a danger then”

“I don’t think you are.” Peggy counters, slightly intercepting him. “Yet.”

He chews his lip, tugs at the back of his hair like he’s always done. “I’d tell them. I’d tell Steve if I really thought I was.”

“I know.” She says. “Would you actually like me to pass that on”

She stops as Bucky shakes his head quickly, “no, no. If you do that’s only gonna’ start a whole different kind of them not listening to me. Only make the check-ups worse. That’s the thing I don’t want - this is - all just…” He struggles for the word.

“Hypothetical?”

Bucky nods an answer,_ yes, that sounds about right. _Our little secret, just like our little deal.

“I think this is the longest conversation we’ve had so far.” Peggy comments suddenly, taking the last of the roll and finishing the dregs of the cigarette. She watches her fingers as she crushes it against the clean glass ashtray. “Or at least - the longest conversation we’ve had alone.”

“All praise the Lord and all hallelujahs to that.”

“We should do this more often.” She counters, and when he looks back at her she’s smiling at him in a kind closed-mouth way. He smiles back. “I’m sorry I asked you to do this.” She says, “but thank you.”

“Wasn’t your fault, darlin’.” He responds, nudging her panty-hosed leg with a foot as he shuffles further back on the sill. “It’s weird how…there’s still people about…it’s not quiet down there. Doesn’t feel real.”

_It doesn’t? Or you don’t?_

“I suppose that’s the benefit of a city firmly under a collaborative regime.” Peggy muses as she joins him looking down at the cobbled street. “I hate collaborators.”

Bucky snorts abruptly at the tacked on ending. “Now that<strike> "</strike>

“Don’t call me darling”

“_Carts,_ we can agree on.”

“I’m never going to win this." Peggy whispers, eyes rolling to the ceiling. She sighs, “Would you like another cigarette?”

He shakes his head _no. _“Like I said, don’t like the taste.”

She nods, “forget your taste, what about your nerves?”

“Suitably calm…er,” he has to allow that after a moment. At last he adds a: ”…..thanks.”

“Ditto.” She returns, which is one of Steve’s little catchphrases, so she’s clearly got it him from him. It makes Bucky smile. “I’ll be off now, Falsworth is waiting across the street in a closed garage for me.”

Bucky’s smile abruptly dims. “Wait..for you? Just you?”

“Baumgartner’s men were outside the door, ” she explains, “they likely still are - if they see you leaving early it’ll be suspicious. So if stay here tonight, and then leave at sunrise. I’ll just be seen as leaving after my shift, so I’ll be alright.” She motions at the bed. “Stay here - sleep on an expensive mattress, relax, take a few hours - I’d dare-say you’ve earned it.”

“What about<strike> "</strike>

“Just sleep, Bucky.” She says, collecting the file. “We’ll see you at seven, one of the boys will come meet you from the docks…in case of emergency - your kit and radio are in the wardrobe.”

She disappears from their little curtain fort; picks up the file with all the intel; then the recordings she made. The door shuts. _Nice talk._

_. . ._

The lights are dimmed, but not completely out. The bulb under the cream lampshade buzzes faintly with power and warm weak orange light, and the tassels sway with a cool breeze from the half open curtains; refreshing air. There’s enough to see the outlines of all the room, each object, each space near perfectly placed and calculated; the credenza is perfectly symmetrical to the width of the bed, the wardrobe and mirrored drawer unit come to each end of the pelmet opposite. There’s a two lamps on both bedside tables, exactly the same, and a polished phone on the left. There’s no bible. The armchair and circular table are at the perfect angle to look out the window in the morning. The sheets are the softest his sleeping limbs have ever felt in their life.

“_You're a monster,” he gasps, and Andrew has the audacity to laugh, a breathy sound against his face. "You absolute__fucking__tease."_

_He releases the wide palmed touch over Bucky’s ribs to smooth his hand back through his hair as he adds a second finger. Bucky, as his name proclaims; _ _bucks_ _ into the touch._

_Andrew works him open slowly, methodically almost, until Bucky is writhing beneath him and angling his legs to pull Andrew’s hips closer._

_"Have you_ _ _ _did you lie? Have you done this before?"_

_Andrew shakes his head, "not w'th a fella. Learning on the job and all that is kinda' me' bit."_

_Bucky laughs, shaking into him, backing up further and further as Andrew works, squeezing the arm he has trapped under him. "Don't_ _ _ _don't think you got anything to learn, Andy-Pandy."_

_"Now who's kissing me' ass?"_

_Bucky shudders out a, "I wish," which makes Andrew's smile widen. "I haven't_ _ _ _Me neither." Bucky admits, which is probably pointless considering it's so obvious. It's funny, how they've never actually talked about going this far before_ _ _ _but why haven't they? Why haven't' they been doing this all along - they were already sinning just with that first deviant kiss, so why not sin all the way? He'd say this couldn't be a sin, not when it's made him the happiest he's been in a long time, but that's how the devil gets you, ain't it? He doesn't care, he's going down not up when he goes eitherway._

_"A know, 'hat."_

_"Glad we could--I'm glad we can, can do this...together too." He manages after a few false starts, breathing heavily. "So glad. I_ _ _ _"_

_"Me too." Andrew interrupts, softly but insistently, and they kiss longing and deep. The way he's looking at Bucky now after those words, when he leans back just above him, says it all. It's something special. They're so lucky to have each other._

Bucky curls into the pillow; twisting the duvet up around his wrists in pleasure, a small smile on his face. He wakes, just briefly, to feel tightness between his legs - the first time in _months. He’s tried so hard, and nothing…and now…_ It’s a good tightness. He palms it, feeling a thrill in his skin, then returns to find his friend in sleep again.

_. . ._

_“What about that guy?” Steve asks, peering down and pointing over the railing of their fire-escape. “What would he be?”_

_“That’s Mr Mullins.” Bucky says._

_Steve rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. Obviously. But if he wasn’t Mr Mullins, who would he be at home?”_

_Ahh, their usual game. He feels younger than he is now, and Steve looks younger too; even though he basically stopped growing at seventeen. Everything past the window inside the apartment is all blurry; so he can’t guess which one it is of the three they’ve had apart from the exterior view. Bucky guesses they must be about nineteen - they’ve been living together for just over a year. Things become clearer as he susses this._

_“Hmm.” Bucky replies, sounding it out as he thinks. He leans over to see clearly. “He owns a laundromat. All the old ladies go there ‘cause it’s the ‘best and most sparkling service in town’ and they all want to get their hands on that toupee of his.”_

_“Okay.” Steve laughs, “where are you going with this?”_

_“He’s very humble and nervous around women - like you.” He says so Steve will hit him. He does; a smack to the arm, “he’s always fiddling with his fake hair - making sure it’s on straight. The old ladies think he’s a middle-aged darling for it _ ** _ **but!** _ ** _” He exclaims with drama, “it’s all an act.”_

_“Tell me more.” Steve declares, starting to doodle Bucky on the corner of the newspaper as he listens. _

_“Behind the third and fourth dryer convey-belt there’s a secret door - and you go through and down to the second basement. That’s where he keeps the bodies--”_

_“Okay really,” Steve interrupts, “why do all your stories have to go dark? Not every story has to involve blood guts and homicide, you know.”_

_“I’m sorry, is this my story or yours?”_

_“Yours,” Steve allows, “fine.”_

_“That’s where he keeps the bodies,” Bucky continues, “of money! Ha, you see, yes, I can still surprise you.” He says as Steve laughs. “Tons and tons of it, all stored away from his years as a spy for the government. He’s been on the case of the underground casinos in Chinatown for ten years. He’s smart, knows not to trust the banks, and has racked up the dollar.”_

_“And yet he lives in a tenement building?” Steve says innocently._

_“Well, how else is he going to find out the darkest secrets of the criminal masterminds in these walls? It’s a cover. You see that one there?” He says and points to Mrs McClusky whose the oldest person in the building, wrinkly and mostly sweet, who takes up to an hour to walk to get her milk if Lizzie Pruitt didn’t do it for her every morning. “She is an absolute _ ** _ **slut** _ ** _.”_

_Steve chokes on a laugh._

_“A scoundrella, a tramp of the tallest order. She’s in cahoots with his enemy - not that he knew it when she had him between her legs - and Christ almighty did she show him a good time - right before she showed her cards.”_

_“Oh my god.” Steve declares, smiling as he swallows a mouthful of Hillman’s ‘American Pride.’_

_“She’s blackmailing him after stealing secret codes while he was catching his breath. He fell for it six times - the sexy fiend is so good, and if they find out he screwed up the government will kill ‘im - and so now every month he has to go to his basement and deliver three thousand dollars to her to keep her quiet. By the year’s end every last dime will be gone.” He adds this mournfully, hand over his heart. “He’ll shove his head into a washing machine to put himself out of his misery. Miss slut will live happily ever after. The end.”_

_Steve laughs around the rim of the bottle of beer, then hands it to Bucky so he can drink. “I’ll give you a seven out of ten for that one--” he holds up a hand to counter Bucky’s insulted gasp - “because you’ve had better.”_

_“Well fine,” he replies, “as a person who has _ ** _ **no taste** _ ** _.” Steve snorts. “See if you can do any better. Your turn.”_

_“Target?” Steve asks, sitting up on his haunches readily. Bucky twists onto his stomach and points below - “her” - then floppily returns to lying on his back in the sunshine. He tries to balance the half-full beer bottle on his stomach. _

_It’s hot today, and is sweltering in their apartment. They’ve abandoned it for the fire-escape like many others have done; camped out on a blanket and their couch cushions. Steve did a run out for beer early this morning with the last of the dime left over from his window display job last month - after the both of them decided to forgo church for once to chill their way through the heatwave weekend._

_ Bucky meanwhile sweet-talked Mr Rosenburg - and bribed him (a little) into letting Bucky chip a bucket full of ice off his walk-in freezer wall to keep the bottles cool. They have four more swimming in a tub of water and ice behind an umbrella in the shade, and another eight-pack in the fridge. They’re both shirtless and trying to tan in the sun._

_He doesn’t know how he knows this, because it’s not a specific memory, despite how they’ve done this near a dozen times in the last few years, but he just does._

_“You’ll spill it.” Steve warns, watching him in amusement._

_“Go spill yourself.” He retorts, “start your story.”_

_Steve clears his throat. “Her name is Eleanor Wolowitz. She is _ ** _ **not** _ ** _ a slut--”_

_“Booo!” Bucky calls from his position on his back, catching the bottle as it tumbles. “I don’t like this story already!” He says as Steve smacks his groin with the newspaper. He jerks his knees up in a curl. “Why do you always go for my junk, Jesus Christ.”_

_“Because it’s the only thing I can hit.”_

_His knees hit the bottle as Steve fakes another, and spills a splash of sticky beer down the side of his chest. Bucky groans._

_“Told you. Shut up.” Steve orders, grinning, “it’s my turn. She is not a slut - but in fact---”_

_Someone knocks on the door of their apartment; both their heads turn up to look at the closed door through the open window._

_“I’m not getting it.” Bucky calls before Steve can._

_“God, you’re a lazy ass.” Steve says, but good on him - he gets up to answer the door._

_“Don’t you know it.” Bucky grins at him upside down._

_“Don’t move,” Steve warns, “I’m not done.”_

_“Wouldn’t dream of it, pal.” Bucky retorts, trying to drink while lying down. The beer rushes out over his face until he’s spluttering._

_“That serves you right!” Steve yells over from the other-side of the window, hooking his other leg over. Whoever it is is hammering on the door. “I’m coming!” Steve calls out, then grumbles, “who the hell is knocking on our door on a Sunday, for fuck - hello sir!” He switches to brightly as he opens the door. “How can I help you?”_

_“Hello Captain.”_

_Bucky jerks upwards, and the beer bottle smashes as it falls off him, soaking the caricature drawn onto the newspaper in a stained puddle. He smashes a second one so he has a weapon, wielding it by the neck - ‘I will know I’m dreaming. I will know I’m dreaming.’_

_Steve glances over briefly as he hears the crashes, but turns back to the man at the door. “I’m sorry, sir.” He says in confusion, “I’m not a Captain.”_

_“I can make you into one, I’m looking for a testhma--”_

** _ **A** _**_testhma, not _ ** _ **the** _**_testhma. He’s not here for Bucky - he’s not here for_

_“Steve no!” Bucky yells, and tries to dive through the open window. His leg snags on the sill, crashing to the ground._

_“Christ, Buck are you okay<strike> "</strike> he hears but can’t take his eyes off the not-white coat but tweed suit in the doorway. _

_“Steve get away from him!” He shouts, scrambling to his feet as Zola raises a hand. He’s holding Bucky’s bloody liver - he squeezes. ‘I will know I’mno, no, I’ve lost it I-- Blood spurts in a burst and his invisible stomach scar tears itself open. His weapon disintegrates as he drops it. He catches half his intestines as they come spilling out - and trips over the long unending sausage that he doesn’t catch in time._

_“Buck!” Steve shouts in panic and fear, turning to run and catch him._

_The floorboards swallow him right as the light glints off Zola’s spectacles and he grins in success of an experiment well done. The last thing he see’s is a needle spearing itself into the side of Steve’s neck._

He jerks upright with a start, choking - and slams himself into the bathroom; throwing up half in the sink and half on the floor.

He’s shaking when he comes back to himself. His throat burns as though the skin inside has been stripped, and he’s dry heaving but nothing’s coming anymore. His breaths shudder in and out, butsomeone has cleaned up the where he spewed on the floor - he’s holding a rolled up towel that smells, wrapped in another towel. His stomach feels so empty. He turns the water off and backs out of the room - opens the wardrobe to grab his stuff and the short-range radio.

He says goodbye to the swankiest bedroom he’s ever seen without a thought, turning the black uniform jacket inside out to conceal the colours, throwing a hat on his head. He goes downstairs - dumps the balled up towel in a maid’s trolley and leaves out the kitchen - darting down random alleys and getting utterly lost until he’s sure no one is following him. The hands in his gloves are still shaking.

He yanks out the short wave radio - he needs to, it’s irrational, he _knows it’s irrational_ but he needs to know his friend is safe.

“Emu emu.” He fires out; then starts spitting out dashes and dots with his trigger finger on the button. His hand slides up under this shirt; feeling along his stomach - it’s sealed like it should be - in the streetlight you can barely even see the scar anymore - it’s fading. Nothing comes in his response to his call; and his hand tightens on the radio before he starts moving again - trying to get his bearings.

“Emu emu.” He calls again into it._ Come on, come on; please._

This is the first time Zola has come for someone else other than him - it’s always him. He should have made sure he was in control before he let his eyes close, and this wouldn’t have happened. He’s so stupid.

The radio fuzzes after a moment, and Bucky almost misses it. “Ostrich, e--ag--e. You have us. Report?”

“Eagle, is that you?” Bucky confirms, sniffing and following the fish smell to try to reach the harbour - it looks as though he’s in a residential area. He hopes the smell leads him to the waterfront and not a closed fish market. Eagle is Steve, the rest are Robin, Sparrow, Tit and so on. Bucky refused to be Robin - or Tit. _Let this be eagle - it sounds like him through the fractured waves._

“Yes. Emu,” the radio confirms sharply as he’s not following protocol. Hell, protocol was for him to wait until morning before he took off. “Report.”

“Coming to Jeeves. Over.”

There’s a long pause where nothing comes over the radio, and Bucky thinks it hasn’t gone through; is about to repeat the dispatch. It flares up again. “Is it---[STATIC]--raining in Florida?”

Those are Peggy Carter’s words in Steve’s voice. Translation: _Are you blown? Do you need immediate extraction?_

If he says yes he knows full well Steve will have the boys up and a’tem before a second has passed, and a plan to pull him out of the hotel by the third - but - he can wait until he gets there - he can handle just hearing his voice for now. Besides, he’s already out of the hotel and a good three-quarter mile away. “Still sunny,” he replies, “eyes out Jeeves. No tail. Over.”

The radio spits Morse out for him, and so he counts it on his fingers; listening. A confirmation.

He slips the radio back in his pocket - skipping a step as he slips round the corners and stays in the shadows, and when he emerges; makes himself as unobtrusive as he can; passing a night-time clean-up crew and a pair of workers headed home. He avoids any patrols; and thank god - he finds the waterfront. There’s a hole in the fence where they’ve cut a vertical line up; but concealed it. Torchlight goes off on the other side of the harbour - and the security heads that way; he has a feeling that’s not coincidence. He ducks under the fence - has to go back when his jacket snags on it; tearing.

“Shit shit,” he curses, fighting it with his fingers, sharp enough to scratch or cut, but nothing breaks his skin. He gets the fabric off and re-threads the wire together. He heads towards the _Woodhouse_ boat - which sounds like WodeHouse - who wrote Very Good Jeeves. _Coming to Jeeves, over_; he’d said. He sidles and jumps down the harbour wall to the mooring edge, and makes his way along that for more cover; crab crawling sideways. He gets to the old boats that are classed as no longer sea-worthy, where _Woodhouse_ is moored. Hands grab him from behind a closed rain-cover; and pull him in.

His hand goes straight for the knife in his boot; the hands under his armpits clench, dragging him across the boat. “It’s me. It’s me, relax.”

His hand moves from his knife to clutch at the damp sleeve of Steve’s suit. “What--”

“We moved boats. “ Steve says behind him as he turns to look - a stream of light peaks in from the flapping seal of the rain-cover; illuminating one side of his face. There’s no mark on his neck; Steve touches his shoulder. “Are you good?”

Bucky swallows._ Are you?_

“Bucky,_ are you good_?”

He nods, sharply, awareness coming that its the second time he’s been asked. “Yeah, yeah, no tail. I made sure.”

“What happened?” Peggy whispers, halfway up the stairs from the deck from below.

“Boots in the corridor. Unknowns. II didn’t want to risk it.” He lies, and adds on an excuse for coming the Jeeves boat instead of their more secured land position. “Couldn’t get to the other apartment - too many patrols.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Better safe than sorry.” Steve says, even though what he just pulled is way more risky. He probably should have just stayed in the streets until morning - but, he just…

“Are youare you okay?"

Steve gives him a funny look. “Course I am.” He replies, and cants his head; helping Bucky towards the stairs. “Come on, lets get below. We’ll talk there.”

Bucky swallows, “yeah, okay.”

. . .

Steve gets word to the others one of them doesn’t need to go meet him at first light in the morning, and when Dugan drops down into their confined boat when the harbour is open for business he doesn’t say a word about Bucky’s exploits. No jokes, no inappropriate innuendo, no ragging, no judgement - nothing, which clues Bucky in Falsworth may have had a word with him before arrival - having seen how Bucky was before he forced himself through the ordeal. In fact, he’s nice enough to bring breakfast; bread, cheese and meat cuts. Steve for his “_ginormous insatiable stomach,_” Bucky for “_a job well done,_” and Peggy because she’s “_the best dame this side of the Atlantic._”

“Best dame this side of anywhere more like.” Steve says, and by god, he says it without blushing. _Who is this guy and what happened to the one who could barely string a sentence together last year?_

_Disappeared with the rest of his freckles - when the serum struck._

_I’m not talking to you right now._ Bucky tells the shade behind his head._ I’m not talking to you when you're in a mood._

Bucky and Dugan groan as one. Peggy just smirks into her strong tea; surrounded by ciphers, loose scribbles and tired bags beneath her eyes. Steve’s surrounded by plans for their approach into the courthouse.

“Did any of you bloody sleep?” Dugan questions.

“No rest for the wicked.” She says.

“You’re as bad as each other, dear god.”

“Thanks for the sandwich. You can leave now.” Steve decides faux-brightly with half the bread stuffed in his mouth. Dugan doesn’t leave, instead he rocks back beside Bucky and puts his feet up, ensuring no part of them touch aside from a kind pat on the leg.

He blinks over his cup of tea, poking the meat cuts with a finger.

“Eat, man.” Dugan prompts.

He nods, swallows; eats. He has to admit he feels better after; and Steve’s careful gaze fades with a defined nod when Bucky’s eyes start to brighten with energy.

. . . 

Peggy takes longer than she’d bragged in cracking the codes - as the cipher was just off and she wanted to be sure - so it’s not done by morning - more like the day after.

“Not a word.” She declares in response when Bucky informs her she looks speculator right as she’s on the verge of smacking her head against a wall.

“Want a hand?”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Well, no. But I’ve got nothing else to do.” Steve cants his head towards the table as a yes, as the others are all out scouting what they can. The delay is almost a plus for that reason - they’re more prepared - one day before McMillion is to be moved.

Bucky is left out of the assault as his face has already been seen - and is left in charge of the four workers they’ve used as covers to get in. He remembers in Belgium - what he said about taking prisoners; that argument he’d had with Steve. It’s not the same when they’re not Hydra; he decided, but Hydra are people too. He was wrong then, he can now see that through his paranoia, _because God. He got really dark there for a while didn’t he? No wonder Steve took issue._

Bucky keeps them tied up and blindfolded - sitting in a chair and not answering their questions; and then taping their mouths up again when they’re too loud. Mainly he just ignores them and watches the door until it’s time to leave and the mission is a success. It’s miles better than last night - but_ridiculously_ boring.

McMillion is honestly rather unremarkable, unkempt and hairy - and as they jump from a fishing barge onto a Navy barge redirected by D’Angelo to Liverpool, they settle; and he’s whisked off by command under-deck. He watches Steve and Peggy leaning against the railing of the deck - looking out over the sea and getting smacked in the face with splashes of water. He really looks at her like she’s something special - and Bucky’s admitted it before - but she kinda’ is.

He remembers how it felt to feel about a girl that way - the cheerful honey-moon crush - he hopes what Steve has with Carter - or Peggy, he can finally deign to call her, is more than what he had with his past girlfriends; even Colette. He hopes Steve gets a chance to have what he and….he hopes he gets a chance to have what Bucky and the shade stood next to him in the sea-swept air had, somehow; somewhere.

_I’m sorry I betrayed you._

_You didn’t. I’m not angry anymore. Just because it was with another man doesn’t mean it’s the same._

_If you say so_, Bucky replies in his head, still watching his friend. _I don’t want anyone to touch me again._

_Then don’t let them._

“You alright there Buckaroo?” Dugan asks to his right, and he blinks; and forces a smile on his face.

“Uh yeah - got distracted looking at the love-sick puppies. Disgusting, ain’t it?”

“Eh, I’d say it’s rather cute myself.”

Dugan jerks his head to pull him away and inside. Bucky dodges a hand meant to swing over his shoulder in a friendly hug, and Dugan lowers his arm like he never tried at all.

O_ne of those days,_ he’s probably thinking. _Watch_ _yourself, Dum Dum, don't set him off_. 

“You would say that - you’re such a sap Dum Dum.”

“Why, thank you. That comes as a great compliment from the guy I once caught close to tears when he accidentally shot a deer in the woods.”

It’s okay when Bucky chooses to touch, he decides, so he shoves Dugan and tells him to _can it - and prepare to loose at Poker_.

Bucky looses.

It’s his biggest failure of the week. Because guess what guys? He feels sick - but he didn’t fuck up the mission. He can do something right. Things are getting easier.

. . .

That night, and the night after that; first on the swaying boat and second in his bed in London, he does not speak aloud but regains the control.

_‘I will know I’m dreaming, I will. I will. I will know I’m dreaming._’ He’s been doing it for nearly a month now, every night, before every dream except last night when he was too distracted.

When he falls through the floorboards or the sands to other places - he calls them the upside downs; after a few experimentations he works out a way to walk the walls and then the ceilings.

_“I have a new idea.” He says once in one of them, and helps Andrew put his clothes back on. His friend not-friend buttons his trousers for him._

_“Tha’ was real good, J.” He says, “th--”_

_“Yeah, it was.” Bucky replies, interrupting, though he means it as much as he means anything. He squeezes Andrew’s hand from where it’s resting over his jaw. “But I have an idea.”_

_He firms his foot on the wall, feeling it out, then climbs; resisting gravity. He teaches Andrew how, and they climb up to their tiny little window. Bucky can fit his leg only up to the knee before he runs out of room. He closes his eyes and makes himself shrink - and he and Andrew squash their way though the bars. On the grass he lets himself feel the rain on his face; squeezes Andrew’s hand._

_“Prisoners!” A Hydra patrol guard shouts in a garble of English and German, and Russian, spotting them, and Bucky closes his eyes. He lets his heels drop and his weight take; making he and Andrew fall backwards. The ground swallows them up like water and swings them round so they’re in the upside down - empty except for their feet where they can see an inverted view the compound._

_“Wha’ the fuck?” Andrew breathes, as the undersides of Hydra chins spin in confusion below-above them. “That was - how th’ hell did ye do that?”_

_“I’m magic.” Bucky replies, tugging on his hand. They walk forward in the upside down past the Hydra fence and into the woods. They stay in the upside down all the way to the border of the Paularo base, safe with no firefights or German patrols. Bucky makes them fall forwards this time, and they come out on the other side of the real world._

_“Bucky?” Someone says in astonishment. He turns around and big-strong-tall-Steve in his stupid USO costume is stood by the barrier, still on his propaganda tour. “Bucky!” He shouts again and starts running towards him; crowding him in a hug. Steve hugs Andrew after too._

_“There were other men at that base,” he says later, when Bucky’s shoveling potatoes in his mouth next to Andrew, still sporting both their tongues and all their limbs. “Two hundred or something Americans and more Allied men - and you just left them there. How could you - if you have this magic why didn’t you use it to help them too?” Steve asks, which is a fair question._

_“Because I didn’t care.” Bucky says honestly and defensively in the moment. “When we escaped before they didn’t come get me. You did.”_

_“We wanted ta’ leave.” Andrew says, “so we did. You’e a lot bigger than I thought ye’d be.”_

_Later in this new dream world he’s made, on another night or the same, he can’t remember - so he has to look at the back of his journal - mutilated and burned bodies are shipped back to them. Morita, Falsworth and Gabe are piled onto a hump of bodies; missing arms, and eyes and finger nails. Dernier’s body is just skeletal, and Dugan’s tongue has been cut out - which is not something that surprises Bucky._

_He decides for a do-over._

_“I have an idea.” He says the next night to Andrew back in their cell. He teaches all of his guys and then some the magic - and you know what? It’s fucking spectacular._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REFERENCES
> 
> POLITIETS ETTERRETNING - Norwegian for Police Intelligence<  
REICHSKOMMISSARIAT NORWEGEN - the civilian occupation regime set up by Nazi Germany in German-occupied Norway during World War II.  
WEHRMACHT - the German armed forces, especially the army, from 1921 to 1945.  
QUISLING REGIME - Quisling is a term originating in Norway, which is used in Scandinavian languages and in English for a person who collaborates with an enemy occupying force – or more generally as a synonym for traitor. The word originates from the surname of the Norwegian war-time leader Vidkun Quisling, who headed a domestic Nazi collaborationist regime during World War II.  
SIDNEY RILEY - Sidney George Reilly MC—known as "Ace of Spies"—was a Russian-born adventurer and secret agent employed by Scotland Yard's Special Branch and later by the Foreign Section of the British Secret Service Bureau, the precursor to the modern British Secret Intelligence Service. He is alleged to have spied for at least four different great powers, and documentary evidence indicates that he was involved in espionage activities in 1890s London among Russian émigré circles, in Manchuria on the eve of the Russo-Japanese War, and in an abortive 1918 coup d'état against Vladimir Lenin's Bolshevik government in Moscow.  
HILLMAN’S AMERICAN PRIDE - 1940S BEER BRAND


	35. PART 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The projector starts spinning with a click, showering the wall with light and grainy black spots until the film flickers on and an image drops down into the square of light. It’s a shot of a file, sepia toned, with a dark symbol that looks as though it could be a diagram of a molecule in it’s base form; Steve’s seen a few in Erksine’s work about genetics. There’s a faded stamp of the Hydra emblem visible in the corner of the projection; disappearing into the shadow of the photograph. The focus is on a file tab on the side of the file; labelled MASTERMANN PROJECT. No one sits in the allocated chairs.
> 
> An unseen voice comes out over the speakers. “After years of planning and research, my time has come at last. Project Mastermann is a reality.”
> 
> Bucky tenses behind his shoulder - Steve, in the small room hears his heart ramp up. “What?” He whispers over his shoulder, eyes stuck on the projection. Bucky doesn’t answer.

STEVE

They’ve missed their window for Greece, as Steve predicted they would - but it can’t be helped. The intel hadn’t come through anyway. On the barge and then on the train back from Liverpool, Dr McMillion asked constantly after his wife, a question Steve had no answer for - and neither did Peggy. It turns out the wife is safe; the Embassy was able to get her out before the war began - but she’s at home - and from the sounds of it McMillion may not be home for a while.

“So he’s trading one cage for another, huh?” He notes at D’Angelo, who remains as poker-faced as he always is.

“I don’t make the orders, Captain. Just follow them.”

“Right,” Steve says, walking away. “I guess at least this ones in his own country, and they’ll let him shave.”

Philips is back after several weeks of absence, and requests rather flatly that next time they go AWOL on a mission that is not SSR cleared - _can they please, for the love of god, actually run it by him first._

“Agent Carter”

“Agent Carter I knew about.” He interrupts, “I’m aware she was called away - that’s the nature of this…partnership.” He ends with diplomatically. “But you belong to one organization. This one. Every mission of yours goes through me, Saunders or my below - I’m not having another agency poaching you for their side piece manoeuvres.”

“No one poached us, sir. Agent Carter required assistance, that was all; and we were the closest if not the best. D’Angelo”

“Is not your SSR commander.” Philips says again. “I am. Carter was cleared for the slide - and so SSR assets were relocated to ensure they were covered in order for her to do so. They were not for you. Which, if there was anything in motion regarding your teamluckily there wasn’t - we would have been left with an empty space. I didn’t know you’d gone until after-the-fact - it can’t happen again. MI6 have more resources than any other agency on both sides of this war - and I see the attraction in unlimited access to their transport, safe houses and so forth.” Philips continues, “but they are not the ones you delegate too, get it? ”

“I understand sir,” Steve allows, “I’ll run it past you next time.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” He says, “if they call and tell you to jump - you don’t ask how high, you throw them at my sparkling personage instead.”

“Understood.” Steve repeats. “Sir, if you don’t mine me asking - you seem awfully suspicious. These people are supposed to be our Allies.”

Philips gives him a look he _can_ decipher, in that he doesn’t believe in the pretend trusting persona Steve’s just put on in front of him. Clearly he has more work to do - or perhaps Philips simply sees past the pretend-ignorance for what's underneath. He knows Steve a lot better now.

“Supposed to be.” He confirms, “and they are, in this war. They are also not American - and so they’ll always have other agendas.”

“The agenda of recovering McMillion seems rather legitimate.”

“It was; better the Axis powers don’t have him for damn sure,” Philips says, “but now the Brits have their best asset in nuclear development and weaponry back, and so they’re one step closer. Just because he won’t be working for the Germans now doesn’t mean he won’t be working.”

“Nuclear weaponry.” Steve cuts in, _but of course._ Philips’ other words hit; now he sees. “Right, so the problem is the US doesn’t have access.”

“No, we do not. Though we have our own; the Manhattan Project with Stark on the board. The Brits have theirs by another name, as does probably every developed power in the world right now.” Philips notes, marking down his work.

“It shouldn’t be a race, sir, surely. We should be working together”

“In all things. Yes, a sentiment I have heard many times.” Philips grunts, “Roosevelt himself likes to spout that particular line often enough.”

“Doesn’t make it true.” Steve sighs, even in Roosevelt’s case. He sits deeper in his chair. “Are you saying we shouldn’t trust them? That, what, they’ve got eyes on…American assets.”

“Probably just the same as we do on theirs.” Philips admits, which reveals_ a lot. _It’s also probably a exaggeration considering there's barely an American Intelligence Service in comparison to the numerous MI-Branches. “Just come to me next time. It might come as a shock to you Rodgers - but you are heavily desired; for all operations. Not just the press reels. MI5 is not the first agency I’ve had to push back from poaching you lotand when I’ve blocked them”

“They find another way to sneak past you.” Steve understands - D’Angelo’s side-sequester into a private room when Philips was away now seems much more of note. Steve doesn’t regret it since it helped Peggy; but at least its opened his eyes in another way. It’s also not as new a thought as likely Philips thinks. “I remember a life where not every conversation has an agenda.”

"Don't tell me you miss it." Philips grunts.

"It was a lot simplier, that's for sure." Steve slants in, and his superior officer huffs in agreement.

“It’ll be a long while until the world’s back to that is my guess...God, I hate paperwork.” Philips now mutters. “Never become a Colonel, Rodgers. Far too much pen pushing.”

Steve huffs a smile, he offers: “Would you like a coffee, sir?”

“I would good goddamn kill for one.” He answers in gratification. “One sugar, two--”

“Scoops of the dark stuff.” Steve finishes. “I know how you take it, sir.”

“If this isn’t the best coffee I ever did taste Rodgers - I’ll throw you back to Senator Brandt.” Philips threatens with no heat as Steve leaves with his cup. He laughs.

“Sir, yes, sir.”

. . .

** **

DATE RECIEVED: [BLANK]

* * *

** **WAR & NAVY DEPARTMENT** **

** **V--MAIL SERVICE** **

* * *

(PRINT THE COMPLETE ADDRESS IN PLAIN LETTERS IN THE PANEL BELOW, AND YOUR RETURN ADDRESS IN THE SPACE PROVIDED ON THE RIGHT. USE TYPEWRITER, DARK INK, OR DARK PENCIL. PAINT OR SMALL WRITING IS NOT SUITABLE FOR PHOTOGRAPHING.)

* * *

_[CENSOR STAMP - **REDACTED**]_

_ TO_: STEVEN RODGERS _FROM:_ ST. BERT KEATING

189TH COM-NDO. F.A.B.N, P/O LONDON SUBMARINE SQUADRON 50, SUB: HERRING

_DATE: 3RD MAY_ 1944

* * *

_Hi Stranger, _

_He lives! Let us all stand up and toast his survival from silly jealousy. I miss you too, pal, it’s been an age. I appreciate the apology, even if I never took your knock off attitude personally. _

_You have fucking not? You little shit, who did you blackmail? The doctor, the Captain, the nurse, the MP? Yes you can’t just say it’s a long story and leave it at that, you ass. So where are you - Europe? Italy? That’s where Bucky was going wasn’t it? To Sicily?_

_You mean he was captured? Tell me you’re having me on - fuck Steve, now I’m worry-warting about you both. Not saying you’re not capable, I wouldn’t dare, but Barnes was the one I was thinking I didn’t need to worry about. If it was that bad should he not have been sent home? I’m taking it you mean head-wise; or was he just in bad shape?_

_How is your asthma handling the runs and the fighting? Tell me they let you bring your inhaler - the one you got for Christmas in 40’. I was in the Atlantic doing patrols to relieve the British; I’ve done five full ones now - but not much action. A lot of the sightings turned out to be fishing boats not trawlers or U-Boats. We moved to the Pacific in November - and boy, yeah there is a lot of action here. I’m still on sonar, but help out where I can if we’re down people for some shifts - it’s easier to work through the night sometimes if I’m in a mood. Been doing it a lot before we came up - there’s a bug going round the sub crew; guys dropping like flies. Close quarters. We’re docked in _ ** _ **[BLACK]** _**_for_ **_**[BLACK]** _ ** _. Going back under on_ **_**[BLACK BLACK].** _ **

_Courtney’s trained up as a nurse - did you know? Who would have thought that girl would ever do a honest days work in her life? But she’s surprised all of us jumping in too. She’s doing great - Izzy too - they went into it together._

_I’ll keep slamming out those torpedoes - I’ll paint your name on one so you can explode your way through a Japanese hull - that way you’ll be fighting on both fronts - bet you’d like that you patriotic saint._

_Keep writing me. I mean it. I’ll keep writing you. We’ll drink another bottle of brandy when we see each other next - and this time you can let me smash it. _

_Your pal, Bertie._

Under the sign off he’s written a familiar chant at the end, and Steve, half a month later when he receives it, laughs.

‘NO WAR BUT THE CLASS WAR!’

** **

** **

** **

** **. . .** **

** **

Steve goes to Church again, he prays his rosary, he prays his Divine Mercy Chaplet. He tries to pray the Liturgy of the Hours everyday that he finds the time. He does not confess. He spends the sermon looking up at the stained glass windows instead of listening to the words.

Bucky goes with him, as does Peggy for company, and they all get on. The two of them, unlike Steve, listen to the priest. It’s not new to have switched positions at this strange twist in time nowadays, but this new one disturbs him a little.

** **

** **

** **. . .** **

Skelly News of the World (NBC), Rockefeller Center, 13 TH May 1944

_In the aerial war against Germany, Allied military leaders are still weighing the effects of the record raid, carried out by the American 8_ _ th _ _ Air-force yesterday. Objectives of the great operation were three fighter assembly plants in Central Germany, and the purpose of the attack was to weaken decisively the German defence against the forthcoming invasion of Europe._

_The light-air experts in both Washington and London are inclined to believe the raid was the most crippling blow of the war against the Nazi air arm. The operation cost the attacking force sixty four planes out of about fifteen hundred participating in the flight. This is the highest loss ever suffered by the 8_ _ th _ _ Air-force in a single day’s operation. But in spite of this loss it can be expected that such attacks will be repeated until overwhelming Allied supremacy in the air is assured._

_The number of German planes that participated in the three hour battle in Germany’s skies has been estimated at about one thousand. The unusual strength of the defending force is another confirmation of the fact that the enemy is now conserving the bulk of it’s fighter craft for the defence of Germany proper._

_The decline of German defence in the air over other parts of Europe does not mean the Luffewaffe on the whole has not been materially weakened. Turning our attentions from the European aerial front to the American farms is quite a mental gymnastic, but the two are closely related…_

** **

** **. . .** **

Today’s an incredible day. Today the Allies breach Rome; they’re at the Tiber. It’s only a matter of time. The Invasion of Italy, like the Invasion of Sicily, is moving towards a success.

****. . .** **

** **

Steve enters the room to Gabe, Bucky and Dugan; the precious self-proclaimed_ three amigos_ before they became the _seven amigos _\- taking a well-deserved break for a quick card game. They’ve been working non stop for several days, all of them on different elements of the Grecian base and getting a handle on their placement during the beach landing.

“Alright boys?” Steve greets.

“Not too shabby, Cap. How bout you? Get any sleep?”

“Yes.” Steve replies to Dugan, then adds, “you are not subtle.”

The man grins, “wasn’t trying to be. You want in?”

“Why not - just a quick one.” They deal him in, and Bucky glances briefly at him with a nod of acknowledgement; and continues back with where he’s twisted around on his stomach fiddling with a commercial radio. He thinks it might be the one from Howard’s lab - best he doesn’t ask, honestly.

Three of them make small talk for a while - and then eventually Gabe has to cut in with:

“Sarge - come on. You’re up.”

“Yeah okay, just hang on.” He says, fiddling with the dial until it spits out even more static, and then voices

_This is Admiral Radio, America’s smart set _

Bucky groans with annoyance. “No, for fucks sake - go away. You are not what I want.”

“You trying to get BBC?” Steve questions; “frequency should be”

“Not BBC” Bucky cuts in at the same time as Gabe presses:

“_Barnes_.” He’s holding up the game.

“Yeah, _alright_.” He twists briefly round, and throws his cards down without looking at them. “I fold. I’m out.” The cards fling themselves across the table and knock over part of their pile. Dugan barely catches them as they nearly skid off the table.

“You _little asshole,_ Bucky, seriously.”

“Enjoy your game.” He fires back; not caring in the least for nearly ruining the streak Dugan is currently on. He turns back to the the radio.. Steve snorts at the antics but keeps playing; his amusement grows on the side as he hears Bucky muttering “fuck off, fuck off” every time he catches a frequency he doesn’t want.

_reports that a light armoured motorized infantry roared into Rome, across the Tiber, and into the heart of the city. The deporting German forces were exhausted and disorganized and the city was spared extensive destruc_

_[STATIC]_

Dugan wins. Steve lets him know he only won because Steve let him.

“You’re getting for too big for your boots.” He replies. Steve laughs.

_This is RBR radio_

Bucky swears again.

Gabe says: “Jesus, would you just give up.”

“No. I’m gonna find it.”

_Here is Doug, from Admiral Rad_

“Go **_**away**_**.” Bucky hisses. “I do not want to hear about the war. I am_ in_ the war. Give me something else - why does every godforsaken channel have to keep chatting about manoeuvres and trench lines, for Chr---"

"Lord's name." Steve cuts in without looking as their usual pretend admonishment.

"_ist_<strike> </strike>'" Bucky continues vehemently, also without sparing him a glance."<strike> </strike>_'s sake_." Steve rolls his eyes.

“Maybe 'cause, lucky guess here - it’s _war_, you mother fucker.” Gabe replies too.

“Ever considered there needs to be a distraction to war?”

“Kagan and Keyes play more music than the rest. The BBC too”

“I don’t want music. I have told you four times. I know it’s on here somewhere.” He turns back to the radio and starts spitting at it. “Where. Are. You?”

Steve laughs and moves over.

“What channel are you trying to get?” He asks, waving out of another deal in to try and help. He’s always had a natural touch with radios; the steadiest job he’s ever held was up front at a independent Radio Shack. He knows his stuff - he knows his channels and frequencies; and it can be tricky to get a hold of the ones from overseas. American channels in particular are obviously a lot harder; and from the looks of things that’s what Bucky is trying to get. “Give it here.”

“I know how to work a radio.”

“Not as well as me; the resident expert. What channel?”

Bucky leans his head on his hand. “CBS. Not Admiral - just regular CBS; before it turns four. It’s only gonna be available here for a coupla’ hours; Stark’s alteration to get it.”

Steve starts on the dial. He asks curiously: “What’s on at four?”

“The Shadow.”

Steve freezes, then grins nearly the brightest he has all week. The Shadow, _oh man. Yes_. Bucky sees the grin and adds; the skin of his cheek mushed into his palm. “I’d let you join - but I can’t find the thing.”

“I...but I thought they cancelled them for the wartime”

“They’re back on. Stark swears it - he’s a fan. Listens to it when he’s in his workroom in California. Said an episode was on when he was back there. This is supposed to be the next one.”

“It’s CBS, not WABC?” WABC was what they always listened to it on, CBS’s main flagship station in Brooklyn - and rarely did they ever change the frequency when they were at home.

“CBS. _After Viva America_ \- some kinda musical thing. That’s the strongest signal over this side.”

“Gotcha.”

“Don’t encourage him, Cap.” Dugan groans, “he’s been none stop for the last hour.”

“Good thing I have been,” Bucky cuts in stubbornly. “Since it’s such a problem to find the shitting thing.”

At the same time Steve says, “I _will_ encourage him if it’s The Shadow, good lord. It’s_ The Shadow_ \- didn’t you ever listen?”

“More of a Charles Coughlin guy myself.”

Bucky makes a retching sound. Gabe laughs and joins him.

Dugan rolls his eyes. “Fuck you lot, Couglin is a gem.”

_The Charles Couglin Show_ is very good, Steve has to admit; but he’s always had a one true love. “Not as much of a gem as The Shadow.”

The spit of static and the laugh of Danny Kaye cannot be separated from Steve’s childhood no matter how it’s pulled; they are two things that are so interwoven they’re one entity. From _What’s My Name_ to _The Mercury Theater on Air_ \- Steve’s listened to nearly them all; comedy to music, the news, the weather, the game shows to the story-times. The game shows were his and his ma’s thing; her favourite was the _$64,000 Question, _always vowing she’d one day play on the air; she used to try and enter herself near every week - as she was very good. Becca and Bucky loved the music shows, of course; the fast jazz and the old swingers, but Bucky was also all about the novel readings. Steve remembers that time in 1938; when Orson Welles read the _War of The World’s_ on Live Air with faux news-reports fired out on the channel as part of the story - and half the country had freaked out and blew their wigs - thinking alien objects were falling on New Jersey and the Martians were invading New York with mustard gas. Policemen had stormed the CBS building and Orson Welles’ fame paramounted. Bucky found it absolutely hilarious.

_“To be fair Mercury Theater barely has commercial breaks to announce it was fiction.” Steve had excused, but he was also laughing uncontrollably at the article on the floor of their apartment while his stew burned on the stove._

They’d both preferred the _The Shadow_ radio plays over anything else though. The crime-mysteries were the best; the macabre tales of _The Laughing Corpse, Murder on a Approval, Caverns of Death_; Steve’s favourite was _Shyster Payoff_; Bucky’s _Aboard the Steam-Ship Amazon._

_A figure never seen, only heard, _the Shadow was an invincible crime fighter. Besides his tremendous strength, he could defy gravity, speak any language, unravel any code, and become invisible with his famous ability to_ "cloud men's minds."_ Every episode was a work of art - the level of love Steve had for those plays simply cannot be conceived, let alone explained. They’d brighten his everyday - especially when he was stuck in bed on lumpy pillows that stayed lumpy no matter how much his ma fluffed them. He remembers how at age twelve or thirteen Bucky used to make off with the Barnes’ better family radio and bring it to Steve’s, whether he asked his parents or not, and how no matter the time or the brightness; they would close the curtains or pull the sheets up to shroud themselves in darkness on the floor or on the bed and tune in to CBS. The darkness was crucial, capital; “a cardinal sin not to be in darkness” as Steve once told his mother to Bucky’s crows of amusement (and agreement).

_“It’s the atmosphere, Missus’ Rodgers.” Bucky used to say. “You’ve got to have the _ _atmosphere_ _.”_

_“And I’ve got to see where I’m cutting so I don’t catch fingers instead of _ _potatoes__.” Was the response they often got. “It is not a cardinal sin for your mother to be safe in her own home, Steven. She would like to see where she is going.” _

She’d pull open the curtains; and Steve would groan - and then they’d retire to his room; or the closet; cramped and unable to really move. Steve kept getting worried he was going to run out of air and have an attack the first time; but hardly dared to leave; because good goddamn Bucky was right - the atmosphere of horror was fantastic!

_“Steve.” Bucky hisses in a whisper, and Steve’s _ _embarrassment grows;_ _red-faced in the dark._

_“Sorry.” Steve whispers back. “’m I breathin’ too loud?”_

_“What **no.** I bet you the butcher did it.”_

_Steve scoffs. “As if. It’s totally the wife.”_

_“The Butcher.”_

_“The Wife.”_

_“The Butcher.”_

_“The wife. Ssh ssh ssh, what’s happening?” They both go silent, listening to the climax - the reveal is coming soon. Someone else dies; and Bucky’s suspect is cleared._

_“Dammit.” He hisses to Steve’s gleeful laugh; triggering a harsh cough._

_Bucky asks _ _immediately__. “You need your cigs? Or powder?"_

_He’s cramped in among the coats; legs twisted up so Steve has more room; and there is_ **_**no way** _**_it is _ _comfortable_ _ \- and because of that Steve doesn’t want to ruin his _ _generosity__. He shakes his head, then _ _realizes__ Bucky can’t see it._

_“No. I’m fine.”_

_ If Bucky can suffer a bad back and aching muscles for the atmosphere, Steve can suffer through a little tightness in his chest. Fair is fair._

_“’Kay.” His friend accepts, knowing Steve does not like being asked more than once. “Let me know if you need air though.” He adds, as he knows Steve far too well. “It’s still not the wife.” _

_He likes being wrong as much as Steve does - which is not at all._

_“Ha. Well it’s not the butcher, is it, you fop.”_

_“Punk.”_

_"Jerk."_

_"Idiot."_

_“Gollumpus.”_

_“Nincompoop.”_

_Steve grins at him in the dark._

Guessing the who-dunnit was the best part; especially when Steve was right; which was most of the time. He’d commit each and every bit of detail to memory; even the ‘non-important’ parts that people, including Bucky, often skimmed over, until he had the complete mystery in his head. Then it was just easy. It’s, for most of his life, been the only thing he could ever beat his best pal in.

Sometimes they’d go to the Barnes’ to listen when it was quieter and the girls weren’t crawling all over everywhere and pulling at everyone’s hair - but honestly; most of the time it was too loud and too crowded to listen there. Steve’s place was just a lot easier. Sometimes they_ would _have to listen at Bucky’s on the loud days; when Steve’s radio still needed its constant repairs and Bucky got caught trying to slip the far too bulky radio under his shabby coat, gaining an unimpressed look from his ma. When that happened he’d lean out the window and throw things at Steve’s; normally buttons from his ma’s sewing work; sometimes pebbles stuck inside his shoes; a few times his actual shoe. Steve would come out on the fire escape; look up to Bucky and tell him he was late.

_Been caught by Mother Jekyll.” He used to call; and his ma would shout at him for it; but with amusement. “Come up here. Hurry! It’s about to start!”_

Steve would yell_ coming_; and then right before he disappeared back through the window Bucky would sometimes lean out again and shout far too loud to bring up the seven buttons he threw down; since he just got in trouble for it. Steve’s neighbour used to yell at him to _shut it you good for nothin’ hooligan_. Steve would often yell, _“Sorry, Mr Clayey!”_ quick as he could. One time Clayey yelled something far far worse at him and his friend, and Steve had scrunched his fists in furious anger, pushed it back, and didn’t apologize.

Then Bucky had snapped back, _“you shut it you dead-beat ginger-snap!”_

Steve had uttered_ ‘oh god’_, and run the fastest he’s ever run; made it up the stairs and down the hall in record time. He was so quick that by the time he reached the already open door and run past Becca - he had hold of Bucky’s shirt, yanking him back mid-shout right as Mr Clayey threw two broken beer bottles at his head.

His ma and pa in the kitchen hadn’t heard Bucky; but at Steve accidentally slamming the door on it’s hinges they’d come out; and they’d definitely seen the glass shatter a few inches off their son’s face; and not far from one of the babies. It had _not_ been taken well - before Steve knew it Mr Barnes was downstairs and yelling up a storm. Bucky’s ma asked what had started it; Bucky hadn’t told her; and then - _what did you say? Right now. B__ecause I know you, and I know your mouth._ Bucky hadn’t answered that either; and though Steve gave him a look he hadn’t blabbed the buck. After all the hassle; they’d missed half the show; which is what Bucky chose to lament.

_“I think the thing you should be lamenting is the fact you almost got yourself blinded, and not that you missed the opening.” Steve had hissed at him in the room they hadn’t quite managed to get dark enough. They could only hear half the show anyway - the twins were crying _ _uproariously_ _ in the other room, drowning most of The Shadow out._

_“The openings the best part!”_

_“Don’t say it sets the scene.” Steve cuts in quick._

_Bucky pulls a face at him, then snarks. “It sets the scene.”_

_Steve shoves him off the bed with a thump. “What?” Bucky hisses then, finally on topic, and shoves him back into the pillows. “He_**_** is ** _ ** _a deadbeat ginger-snap!”_

_“_ ** _ **I know he is** _ ** _. But you don’t say it! Not to his face!”_

_“Technically I said it to his window.”_

_“What is w”_

_“You say crap to everyone’s faces_**_** all the time.** _ ** _ All the time. _ _Why’s it any different when I do it?”_

_“I don’t say it to grownviolentmen. Men who live downstairs - downing two packs of beer near every night. Against someone who could cripple you if he catches you alone.”_

_“Wouldn't go that far." Bucky replies dismissively. "I reckon I could take 'im."_

_"No you can't." Steve expressly cuts back._

_"Just because your lot aren’t grown-ups don’t mean they can’t cripple you - you take on people double**triple** your size half the time.”_

_“He has a gun in house Bucky.”_

_“So does pa.”_

_“He and his eldest carry knives out with them! Will you take this seriously? Please, please don’t do that again.” _

_Steve can tell he wants to say ‘you never listen to me when I tell you that’._

_Bucky rolls his eyes instead, “fine.” Then mumbles, “he’s still a ginger-snap. Now, who do you think did it?”_

The problem was: Mr Clayey yells things very loudly and Bucky had matched his volume - Mrs McKinley had heard it and all the rest that came after Steve had started running; and so had Mr Porter; a straight-laced fella to whom manners were extremely important. In no way did Mr Porter agree with Mr Clayey, most of the time no one did, but he also didn’t agree with the inappropriate mouth on James Barnes. “You need to teach him respect, George. He’s an unlicked cub.” That’s what Steve had heard was apparently said in the middle of the argument downstairs, or after it; before the guy launched into a series of methods to restrict Bucky’s foul ire among other things.

_“I think the person who needs to restrict their ire is the bastard who threw a bottle at my lads head, actually.” Mr Barnes had said very __flatly__; but still white knuckled. “I’d __appreciate__ you leaving the raising of _**_**my**_**_ son, to _**_**me, **_**_Porter_**_**.**_**_”_

Mr Barnes, until he met Falsworth, was the most level-headed man Steve has ever met; and to this day there are only two times he has ever seen him really loose his temper; one against Bucky when he was a lot older, and this time. He certainly never lost it anywhere near as much with Bucky as he did with Mr Clayey; the second he’d realized what had happened.

Bucky’s surprised (and panicked, as much as he liked to deny it) yelp; the skid across the hardwood to get away from the broken glass acted as an protective incendiary - and Mr Barnes had _lost his head._

Flipped his lid, blown a gasket; blown all the gaskets; just practically exploded. His ma too.

It hadn’t helped whatsoever that Jenna was crawling not far from the window either; and Steve had jumped over the toddler to shield her from the explosion of glass.

_“I hope you ripped his balls off.” Mrs Barnes opens with as her husband returns, slamming the door._

_“Hazzar to that.” Bucky cheers._

_“Stop!_ _” Steve hisses at him quietly._

_“So you _ ** _ **did** _ ** _ do something, you liar!” Becca whispers across the table. “I knew it!”_

_“It was close.” Mr Barnes says, and approaches where all the children are sat at the round table, the twins _ _squirming_ _ on Becca’s and Steve’s laps. The Shadow ended five minutes ago - Mr Barnes has been gone so long. He tells Bucky he’s going to go _ _apologize__._

_Bucky splutters: “For what?”_

_“You know what.”_

_“Don’t think I do.” _

_Mr Barnes, still _ _brimming_ _with some anger sighs harshly through his nose, pinches the bridge of it. Steve kicks him under the table. Bucky does not hide it well; he doesn’t hide it at all; in fact; he shouts “ow!” and glares at Steve. You do not have to be a _ _genius_ _ to have caught that, all you need is eyes in your head, and Mr Barnes is no fool._

_“From how Steve came speeding in here to yank you back - and thank god he did - I think its rather fair to say he heard everything. Steve, did he, or did he not call Mr Clayey a ginger-snap?”_

** _ **You’re forgetting the deadbeat part.**_** _ Bucky is shaking his head at him; the very look in his eye saying ‘think this through, who are you loyal to here?’_

_“Steven.” Mr Barnes pushes._

_“I..I only heard the first part. Mr Clayey’s been in a foul mood for”_

_“You’re a terrible liar.” Becca cuts in, and Bucky groans. All the Barnes look very much like they agree with that statement._

_Mr Barnes turns back to his son. “You’re going to _ _apologize__.”_

_“I_ **_**am not**_**_.”_

_“You very much_ **_**are.** _ ** _”_

_“He threw the bottle at me! How is that fair?”_

_“Two wrongs don’t make a right - even if that the second wrong is…”_

_“Five times a wrong.” Mrs Barnes cuts in from where she’s ironing. “A jackass move from a top-notch jackasser.”_

_“We’ll go with that, yes.” Mr Barnes allows, sparing her a glance, returning the full force of ‘the look’ back at Bucky._

_“He’s been getting at me for months, calling me all sorts of shit. Steve, tell them!”_

_He does have to nod, because their neighbour has not wasted a moment without swearing or sneering at either of them for ages. “He has. Constantly. Super rude.”_

_“You’re still _ _apologizing__.”_

_Bucky crosses his arms and glares. “I’m not going to mean it.”_

_“Go to your room. _ ** _ **Now.** _ ** _” Mr Barnes orders, his voice the hardest Steve had ever heard it. Bucky scrapes his chair back; Steve cringes at the noise._

_“He’s going to slam the door.” Becca says. _

_Bucky slams the door._

_Mr Barnes sighs very _ _harshly_ _again; not the exasperated sigh he uses with most of his children the majority of the time; it’s still _ _attenuated_ _with fury that hasn’t quite cooled. It looks to Steve that his hands might still be shaking. Steve reckons that bottle smash so close to Bucky’s eyes, and the baby, scared him a lot more than he’s admitting. “I’ll walk you out, Steve.”_

_He darts up, quick as he can. He’s never wanted to leave his best friend’s house as much as he does now - it’s so awkward. At the door Bucky's father he asks Steve to make sure that they walk together to and from school everyday; and anywhere else Bucky tries to go for the next month on the off chance he’s going to break his grounding. That tells him more than anything that while he’s making Bucky go _ _apologize_ _ with him tomorrow; he is not fool enough to risk Clayey doing something foul if he gets Bucky alone. They’ve all heard the yells that go on in that apartment, from above, below and from the sides. He tells Steve not to expect Bucky round for a while, or out and about away from school either._

_Steve swallows, already missing him. “I understand sir.”_

_“Is your mother in?”_

_“She gets home just after eight.”_

_Mr Barnes nods, “well go right on home and make sure you stay there, understand? Won’t have you getting in trouble too.”_

_Steve nods and practically runs for the stairs. “And Steve?”_

_“Yes sir?”_

_“Thank you. For seeing sense in the danger when the idiot in there refused too. And for what you did for Jenna - Winnie saw it. She saw what you did.”_

_“Of course, sir.”_

_Bucky is very slightly vindicated when Gerald Clayey, who stinks of cigarette smoke and sweat most days, confronts him the next Wednesday and tells him he’s a class-act for yelling back at the guy’s pop. “Bout time someone did.”_

_“That doesn’t mean do it again.” Steve says the second Gerald walks away._

_“Yeah yeah, I know.” Bucky grumbles, his face falling again. He pouts, leaning against the railing of the bleachers. He eyes the game of baseball going on at the pitch _ _mournfully__. _

_“You could run track.” Steve suggests._

_“Not allowed to do that either.” Bucky grumbles. “Not allowed to do anything but sit here.”_

_ He can’t even sneak into the game and lie about it later - considering Becca is under strict instructions to tell on him the second he breaks his punishment outside of home, and she’s just down the way. Mr Barnes, as much as he’s thankful, probably doesn’t trust Steve to tell on his friend when questioned. And Becca _ ** _ **will ** _ ** _tell; Mrs Barnes has bribed her with a new dress if she does. _

_(It’s also already backfired considering Becca’s told them he skipped class early to go to the cinema the other day - which is not true. After the foul mood he’d stomped his way over with yesterday, refusing to speak to Becca for the half mile she walks with them, Steve made a point of going over there. Before Mr Barnes could turn him away he explained quite _ _explicitly_ _ that Bucky did not go to the cinema. _

_“I’m not covering for him - ‘m telling the truth, sir. We walked straight home. Not to be a grass,” he says, “but Becca’s lying.”_

_Mr Barnes sighs, as apparently Mrs Barnes had taken one look at her _ _daughter_ _when she’d gotten home and sussed it _ _immediately__. Bucky is free of the extra installed punishment, and she has made sure her husband is now aware of each one of his _ _daughter’s_ _tells.)_

_“Want to hear yesterday’s Shadow play?” Steve tries instead; as Bucky is not allowed to listen to those either. He’s frightfully bored, and will continue to be until he _ _learnt_ _his lesson. Steve reckons that may take longer than Steve, Bucky and his parents are hoping for._

_“Do you remember every single word?” Bucky glances at him._

_“Every one.” He promises. “I can try and do the voice if you want.” Which, if anyone heard him would be incredibly embarrassing and incredibly childish - but he’d do it for Bucky._

_His friend chuckles, and slings himself off the railing to lean back on the bleachers. He smiles at Steve. “You don’t have to do the voice. But that’d be swell - go for it.”_

_Despite that; Steve still starts with: _ **_**“**_**_ W__ho knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" _

_. . ._

The radio. It’s always been important.

The first thing they ever bought with their very first full-time paychecks was a radio for their first apartment; and in every apartment since - there has always been one. It’s a staple of their life; as much as Steve’s ma, as much as Bucky’s sisters; as much of their friendship.

** **

. . .

They never find the promised CBS channel, and so they don’t get to listen to _The Shadow._ Dugan rolls his eyes and laughs at quarter past four when they give up and Bucky spends the next half an hour pouting. Steve kind of feels like pouting too with how suddenly excited he’d gotten.

“Signal must be too far away.” 

“If they can reach Algeries every goddamn day on Admiral you’d think they’d be able to pull some strings for actual entertainment.” Bucky groans.

“Next time.” Steve promises.

His friend snorts, “What are you gonna do - take a barge back home, march to the offices and start yelling at them until they build a stronger frequency and get their priorities straight?”

“The priority is”

“War, yes I know Gabe, thank you. You’ve only said it half a hundred times.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Dugan - he has two Kings.”

“You motherfucker!” Gabe snaps, and slams his cards down. Bucky dodges and runs out of the room with the radio to return to Stark. Dugan and Steve snort and snicker with laughter.

“You better not be supporting this, Cap.”

Steve holds his hands up; “that was a bit of a ginger-snap move I’ll admit.” He braces his hands on his knees and stands. “I’ll get him back for you.”

“You swear?” Gabe asks, “I want better than your signature scribbled on him.”

“Captain’s promise.” Steve promises, hand over heart.

. . .

BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, 16 TH of May

_This is the Morning News, _ _The European News Service of the British Broadcasting Corporation__. First, a message for our friends:_

_Grandmother ate our candy. I do not like crepes, Suzette. The blue horse walks on the horizon._

. . .

** **

** **

They fly briefly through an American base; not far from Chelmsford to meet the division commanders they’ll be with at the coming landing. One of the boys trades for two comic-books a solider received from his younger brother. Steve rags on him, thinking it a waste of good booze when they’ve already got a series of books making the circle, but Dernier and Gabe grin shit-eating, far too pleased with themselves.

“Two comics, actually.”

That’s when he realizes the comic is a _Captain America_ one from his time as a propaganda prop, and also apparently a new one he was not aware of.

“Oh god,” he groans.

They rag on him something fierce for two days straight. He’s starting to think, like the war, that it’ll never end.

“You didn’t tell us you punched dear old Adolf, Cap? Now tell us the truth, have you been sneaking out at night after hours? What would Colonel Philips say?”

“No no, more importantly - what would _‘Mrs Rodgers’_ say?”

They mean Bucky, not Steve’s mother.

“Oh no, it’s alright, he’s here, look!” Morita says, and points to the lower corner of the new one- where there’s an illustrated teenager in red and blue; boots and a black eye mask. He’s grinning, chubby cheeked and carrying a swirl in his fringe. It proclaims _Also! Meet Captain America’s young ally - Bucky! _

Steve snorts water out of his nose.

Bucky snatches it off him. “You have got to kidding me? Who the hell blabbed about the history? Which one of you fuckers was it?”

They all laugh, and keep on going - the ragging and insults going round in a circle. Steve leans into Jones and corrals, “how’s that for payback?”

“Oh, how the tables have turned.” He grins, even knowing as well as Steve does that this wasn’t actually him. “Don’t think this frees you though, man. Captain’s promise.” He winks at Steve.

Morita finishes off with: “Aw isn’t he cute - look at those little tights. You suit a mask, Sarge, maybe we should smack one on your face and have done with it. Look at those cheeks!”

Bucky throws the comic on a crate, stalks off, and Steve almost winces, so sure now he’s taken it personally and it’s going to be a rough day for everyone involved.

He’s proven wrong, even though Bucky doesn’t return with a smile. Steve doesn’t know whether to laugh or continue his theme of red-faced embarrassment when Bucky returns from the mess and shoves a handful of mashed potato in Jim’s face.

Safe to say, though wildly successful, the boys don’t have the best reputation with the officers for correct dress code. Lieutenant Collins tells him constantly they need to be disciplined; but Steve one; doesn’t have the energy for it, and two; doesn’t feel like he needs to. The boys muck around, but they’re serious when they need to be, and while they tease him - they tease the others too. They’ve never once questioned his orders. They respect him, and he feels like he doesn’t need to threaten a court-martial to gain any more respect, especially for the sake of a few turned over collars. They’re professional and polished when they return to London for the most part, which is what matters, and he’d rather they focus on the task at hand and not whether Steve can see his reflection in their boots in the middle of a field. And; though he’s their superior; they’re also his friends.

“What about the time he burrowed under the the trench lines and burned the flag - look at this! My god, Cap, you suit a two page spread - look at that ass.”

This is the third day, going on the fourth.

Steve sighs, “Okay.” He says, and goes to find some mashed potatoes or a big thick clump of mud. Bucky smirks silently, blowing bullet shavings out of a cranny of his rifle.

. . .

_DAILY MIRROR_**: CAUGHT ON CAMERA!** Captain America's lucky lady?

. . .

"The article. It's nothing"

"I'm not going to fire my gun at you Steve, you're safe." Peggy murmers with a smirk.

Steve squints his eyes, teasing. She grins and moves her hand. He pretends to run for the door to make her laugh. It works.

BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, MAY 21 ST 1944.

_This is London calling. The European News Service of the British Broadcasting Corporation. Here is the news. But first here are some messages for our friends in occupied countries. _

_The Trojan War will not take place. Napoleon’s hat is in the ring. John is growing a very long beard this week…_

. . .

Steve goes to church again. He does not confess. He does listen to the sermon. Bucky does not, he stares at the stained glass windows and the details on the alter, and fidgets endlessly with his hymn book. He chooses not to take to his knees, so Steve stays on the pew with him. They’ve switched back. He strangely feels better now Bucky’s lost his interest in religion as quickly as it first appeared.

. . .

Steve pours two cups of water on Bucky’s sheets, then replaces the covers while he sleeps for a fun surprise in the morning. Bucky yelps awake near two seconds later - much quicker than Steve expected. Right…he’s a light sleeper now - a very lightly sleeper - whereas a brass band next to his head would have had little success in the past. Steve’s not quite managed to escape to his own quarters. His pal sweeps the covers back, feeling at them frantically, then his groin; swearing in mumbles, and red with shame and embarrassment.

“Fuck fuck,” he whispers, trying not to wake the others, and Steve almost regrets this as it almost sounds like Bucky’s about to start crying. “You’re not supposed tonot aga”

Then his head snaps up to face the dark corner Steve is trying to conceal himself. The shameful real panic on his face clears, a frown begins forming; and then Steve’s quickly making his escape.

. . .

When Steve doesn’t apologize for defending Gabe’s honor, Bucky replaces Steve’s sugar with salt, and salt with sugar.

. . .

“You are a child.”

“Says the guy who used ‘piss me quick’ like he’s twelve fucking years old.”

“I like the classics.”

. . .

Bucky’s grown a particular taste for a good cup of tea, so Steve recruits Peggy to his side. He has her offer him a couple of tea bags from the tin she keeps in her desk once he’s drank all of his rations in a day to stave away any hunger. Steve’s in the works to nab some extra potatoes from the mess for him.

He accepts; after Steve’s meticulously replaced the contents with Bisto gravy granules.

. . .

Steve forgets Bucky has a particular talent for convincing (bribing) restaurant owners to let him chip ice out of their walk-in freezers, and so is entirely surprised and loud when he discovered Bucky loaded his shoes with huge fucking chunks at the toes.

. . .

Steve ties his shoelaces together when he’s not paying attention, and it backfires as Bucky does a little tap dance, spin, and bow instead of falling over. He should have expected that. Steve's ashamed at himself for not expecting that. He decides to stick with the shoe theme, and loads Bucky’s - after he’s lined them with baking paper for protection _\- because they are _**_**good **_**_shoes, man _\- with expired baked beans.

. . .

_ Home Sweet Home Hour _ ,  Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft(RRG), German State Radio , MAY 15th

_AXIS SALLY: _ _"Good morning Yankees. This is Axis Sally with the tunes that you like to hear and a warm welcome from _ _R__adio Berlin. I note that the 461st is enroute this morning to Linz where you will receive a warm welcome. _

_I’m afraid you’re yearning plenty for someone else. But I just wonder if she isn’t running around with the 4-Fs way back home_ _, you have to wonder._

_By the way, Sgt. Robert Smith, you remember Bill Jones, the guy with the flashy convertible who always had an eye for your wife Annabelle. Well, they have been seen together frequently over the past few months and last week he moved in with her. Let's take a break here and listen to some of Glen Miller."_

“Ah. Our beloved Axis Sally - just what you want to hear while your having your supper.” Steve raises his eyebrow at Monty, who raises them right back. He adds pointedly, “I’m being sarcastic, of course.”

“Right.” Steve replies belatedly, “you should be more clear about that.”

“Did you not hear it in my voice?”

“No,” they all retort to him at once.

“You sound the same every which way you do it, Major Ritzy.”

“Clearly you have no appreciation for dry humour.”

“Or clearly, I just don’t have any appreciation for_ bad taste_.” Gabe tacks on, removing his eyes only from the page of_ The Lost City of Atlantis,_ in**_** Spanish**_**, to give the radio by the wall a withering look.

Steve is entirely with him.

“Why you even listening to that shit?” Gabe queries, “you know it ain’t any good.”

“It’s good music all the damn time for one.” Morita allows, “if you can ignore the raging anti-semitism.”

“That’s the point - it’s how she gets you. Playing American music.”

The quick tempo notes of Glen Milliar’s _Cattanooga Choo Choo_ fizzles around them cresting the chorus and then the second verse as Dum Dum, Morita and even Falsworth start tapping their feet to it.

“I don’t know what you want from me man, music’s music. I can’t get any other hot jazz like this from the other channels.”

Jones shakes his head, returning to his book; and the boys continue to chat the supper away; from one Glen Miller song, to Nat King Cole, to the Andrew’s Sisters. It is good music, he has to admit, and hard to find on this side of the world; so its a simple yet difficult conundrum.

“Where’s Barnes these days anyway?”

“Probably busy putting dog poo in my shoes.” Steve mutters, consigning.

“What?” One of them half laughs.

He shakes his head, “nothing.”

Gabe’s raised his eyes from his page again, brow cocked. He jerks his head to get Steve’s attention. “That revenge, how’s that coming?” He asks in quick French, passing over the other’s conversation easily as Jacques is not here.

“Very successfully.” He answers stubbornly.

“Oh yeah?” Gabe asks with a grin.

“Oh yeah.” Steve confirms.

Gabe chews his gums, in the same grin. “You want any back up?”

“Already got some.” He consoles, “and she comes armed with gravy teabags.”

Gabe snorts into his bitter coffee as he takes a sip. “God.” He laughs, “does she now?”

“Last total counts to me winning.” He says as The Andrew Sister’s finish their latest hit.

“Until he one ups you.”

Steve scoffs, “he can’t one up me. Impossible. He never wins these matches - he just likes to think he does. I’ve got fourteen years in my arsenal to prove it.”

“If you say so.” Gave laughs.

Meanwhile, The Home Sweet Home Hour, sticking with the theme of adultery with the “weak”, cowardly 4-F’s at home, begins reciting a poem; which ends with a verse that sends Steve’s stomach in knots.

_Money and liquor and girls–_ _  
_ _They are grabbing for all they are worth._  
_Why do the swine get the pearls,_ _  
_ _And the meek inherit the earth? _

He looks behind him as the grumbles start, turning and watching the soldiers on several other tables with their heads bent down and muttering. Steve can hear them very clearly.

"I know a guy - Jackson Mayford back home - got off for a bad heart. ‘ts what he says anyway, bullshit though. Bad constitution’s another rumour that went round. Hell - guy probably admitted he’s a damn fairy to get outta’ it. F’ffing draft dodgers. They’re not real countrymen.”

“If he’s a queer then you haven’t get anything to worry about, have yer?”

“It still ain’t right - they get to be back home with their families - and where are we? Where we gonna be not even next month? Dead in the water probably. Fucking cowards all of them, fairies or no.”

They catch him looking, nod their heads respectfully in accordance and respect. “Captain.” They grin. He nods back dully. Their names are Vera and McCall, they’re good men, good soldiers; full of belief - or Steve thought. He glances at the radio speaker, still spewing out hate and propaganda.

Another table mutters, “my sister’s right at dating age now - off my ma’s eyes - what the hell’s she gonna end up with when I get home - when there ain’t any real choice out there. Would you want one of them in your family?”

“You read Charles Darwin?” A British officer is now speaking, “he has this whole theory right - survival of the fittest - it’s not like that in war though, is it? Fittest become cannon fodder, and the rest…well”

“Jesus, I don’t like her,” the voice is from their table, “but you can’t really blame the G.I’s for all that resentment, you know? Us being out here, while all them 4F’s are back home living on the town.”

Steve wasn’t paying attention enough to know out of whose mouth that came, but came it did.

“I used to be a 4-F.”

Now that stills everyone in their places.

“I’m with Gabe, turn that shit off. It’s obviously working the way they want.” Without waiting he does it himself, flicking carelessly with one movement. It goes to static, then gets a Northern Channel - Liverpool, it sounds like. He goes to stand. “And for the record, if you lot did have sweethearts back home - they wouldn’t be cheating. You’re too good a’ group of guys for them to consider it.”

“Cap” one of them starts.

“All good.” He replies already turned, “just leave it off - no else in the canteen needs to be hearing it either, Glen Miller or no.”

. . .

He smells the lice treatment Bucky’s coated on the soap before he lathers himself in it.

“You went all out for that one - even spent _money_ on it. Who are you?” Steve questions, reaching out a hand to feel his temperature. “Are you feeling alright?”

Bucky shoves his hand away, smiling some. “Screw. Off.”

“That smell on ma’s wash gloves is seared into my nightmares, along with her attacking my head with a towel. I recognized it instantly.”

“That’s why it’s funny.”

”Shame it failed.”

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure I’m still in need of a shower,” Steve notes.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms with a smirk. A whiff of sharp vinegar mixed with scented chemicals passes Steve’s nostrils, and he turns to see to witness Morita scratching at his armpits and complaining that he doesn’t know what’s happened - he swears he just showered. Two other officers also smell.

“You forgot to replace the soap bar, didn’t you?”

Steve closes his eyes, “I forgot to replace the soap bar.”

. . .

There’s talk of an informal investigation. Steve sinks down in his seat, and swears Bucky to secrecy - after learning Dugan already knew and had to be thoroughly convinced to not_ leave it out _for more people living in the base to coat themselves in.

. . .

Bucky very nearly puts pepper in his underpants. It’s unfortunate for him that Steve catches him in action.

. . .

_Home Sweet Home Hour _ ,  Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft(RRG), German State Radio , MAY 17th

_AXIS SALLY: _ _“The D of D-Day stands for doom…disaster…death…defeat…Dunkirk or Dieppe__.”_

“You’d wish to know, wouldn’t ya?” Dugan retorts. “Hell - I’d like to fucking know. Dunkirk or Dieppe. What’s it gonna be? What do your spies say Carter?”

“Nothing you need to hear yet.” 

“Does that mean you know or don’t know?”

“She doesn’t.” Bucky says, looking at her once and calling it.

“What makes you say that?” She asks, smiling sweetly, lifting her head.

“You have a tell, Carts.” He informs her.

“You continue to impress me, until you call me Carts, and then loose anything gained.”

“That’s a shame.” Steve notes between them. “You should stop with the Carts.” He tells Bucky, who retorts with:

“You should eat me.”

Steve ignores him and then says to Peggy, “and you should stop underestimating him.”

“Interesting suggestion.” She says, “You should know - I told Howard you’re free all night to stand as his guinea pig while he tries out his new invention. It’s commercial. A toaster that doubles as a kettle. There’s also talk of a theme park. Enjoy.”

“That’s cruel.” He tells her outright; and slaps his hand down to stop her from high-fiving Bucky when he opens his hand on the table for her to do so. “Traitor. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am.” She replies innocently. “Also: bite me.”

“_Oh yes_.” Bucky says, going behind Steve’s back for a high-five now before Steve can stop the two of them.

“I’m scared of the both of you.” He tells them each as the slap echoes near his butt.

“So do you or don’t you know Pegs?” Dugan pushes, “and if he’s right - what’s her tell?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows as he switches to Bucky, as apparently it is essential that he knows.

Steve, Peggy and Bucky, the three of them; retort - “nothing you need to know yet.”

“Forget you two - _I’m_ scared of the threesome going on in front of me.”

“Don’t be so vulgar, Dum Dum.” Falsworth says, arriving. “Geez, Sally, _again_? Get that off before Jones hears.”

. . .

After Church Bucky takes a step forward, back, then forward again. He goes back another time after, closer to the pew instead of the aisle.

“Bucky.” Peggy counsels, “you are stepping on my feet. Whatever you are doing, will you _please_ make a decision?”

“Sh” He swallows that down as Steve gives him a look and gestures to the stained glass, “ining lord,” he counters, “holy land, right, sorry.”

“Nice save.” Steve tells him. “You’re still stood on her feet.”

He side-steps off them, and Peggy rolls her eyes, slipping her shoes off to massage at her toes. “It’d help your foot pain if you weren't wearing heels you know.”

“Then she wouldn’t have an extra weapon to stab you with.” Steve counters and Peggy lets out an unlady-like snort Steve _absolutely fucking_ adores. “The usual,” he queries, “or are we trying something new?” This second one is directed at his friend, who is now fidgeting with his hands. “Buck,” he says to get his attention. He gestures with his head at the confession box, guessing what Bucky’s back and forth could be. “You wanna go in?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.” He admits after, “see if it helps like it does you?”

It actually hasn’t been helping that much at all lately; he’s going if only for the tradition that he_ should _be going. “You wanna’ go first?”

At that Bucky forces himself forward at a speed that suggests he’s going before he can think twice about it. Steve huffs, “okay then? My lady?” He gestures with a smile at the seat to wait, and Peggy takes his hand with one of her shoes still off and pulls him onto the pew. They sit next to each other, and under the blue and reds of Christ’s Crucifixion, surrounded by his apostles; they hold hands and act like a real couple, talking into each other’s ears. They haven’t really had a chance to have this

Bucky doesn’t even last two minutes.

“That was quick.” Peggy comments leaning forward; stopping mid-sentence of their plan for their next prank.

“It was a stupid idea.” Bucky pushes out, crossing his arms and acting jittery.

“I was a little surprised I admit.” Steve says, keeping Peggy’s hand while his other rests on the dark wood arm of the pew. “You alright?”

“Yep. Fine. Great. Good.” He fires right back, bouncing up and down on his toes. Steve and Peggy glance at each other.

“Sure about that? You’re doing your funny little dance.”

“I don’t have a funny little dance”

“_Yeah, _you do - and your doing it. Did the Father even get past the opening”

“I’m fine, Steve.” Bucky interrupts, “Are you going in or what?”

“Er…yeah. Um.” He sits forward. Peggy squeezes his hand to get his attention.

“How about you go in and we’ll meet you at the café round the corner. It’s called Woodstock’s Snack Bar. Continental Buffet. Thought you’d like that with your enormous appetite. Two streets down.” Out of the side of her mouth she offers, “he obviously wants to get out of here.”

“I can you hear you.” Bucky says, arms still crossed.

“Good.” Peggy diverts at him, then returns to Steve. “Sound like a plan?”

He glances at Bucky who is clearly tapping his foot impatiently. If Steve weren’t so worried he’d probably laugh at him. “Definitely.” He replies, kissing her quickly.

“Get a room.” Bucky cracks at him.

“Get yourself on.” Steve returns, which his ma used to always say with her accent, standing and shoving against his friend’s head. Bucky tries to duck so Steve makes sure he gets him good. “Don’t let him order for me.” He tells Peggy, “I don’t trust a thing he’s had his hands on at the moment.”

“Just wait until I dye your hair bubblegum pink.” Bucky threatens.

“Shut up and walk.” Peggy orders herself, shoving Bucky in the back. “And _get off _my toes.”

Steve enters the box, actually lets the Father get through the opening Acts, does his confession; simple and general and succinct, unlike the last few times he confessed. The Father asks if there’s anything else - maybe hearing it in Steve’s voice - but he says no and takes what he’s given. He’s forgiven for his sins.

_Great. Okay. In theory._

He feels almost resigned to this lack of feeling he’s been having about confession - remembers how much peace it used to bring him. He remembers when he didn’t feel so stilted between the two. Now knowing that he doesn’t have to be worried about them being at each other’s throats, Steve feels content to stay a little longer before heading to Woodstock’s Snack Bar. He gives alms instead and heads to the Saints Altar to light a candle for his mother. He donates some more cash to the bucket at the door looking for funds to help the restoration of St Georges; which has been badly bombed since 1942.

As he makes his way round and down the two streets, stepping over rubble and smiling at the old men who salute to him, he spots Woodstock’s in the distance; but doesn’t spot who two companions at the outside seating - which seems to majorly sit tables for two. They must be inside. Their little outings are a tradition now; and therefore the three of them have learned that while they may be small in number - the amount of food they try and get away with ordering from ration limitations is not.

He, like always, hears them before he sees them, slowing at the corner, just before the awning. He watches a reflection in the window from the other side of the street of them just beyond the window - Bucky staring down at a cup of tea, swirling a spoon around and around. They’re talking about spying; espionage. He stops.

“Did - do you really reckon I was good at it? The whole - undercover - spying m’larky.”

“I do.”

“Enough to...enough to trust me to do it?”

“I trusted you enough to do it before your little audition.”

“We’re not calling it a fucking audition, Peggy.”

“That’s no way to talk to a young lady, solider.” Someone commands firmly from the other side of the table, an older man, it looks like. “It’s not good taste.”

“Thank you sir,” Peggy replies back, “but he’s never had good taste, so I never expect it from him. We’re quite alright.”

“I’ll tell Steve you’re bullying me.” Bucky threatens.

“I’ll tell him you spent the entire time sat at Mass whispering blasphemes under your breath.”

“Well that’s not going to work, is it? He would’a heard me if I did, he can hear shit half a mile away if he wants to.” _Well guilty,_ Steve thinks. “So he wouldn’t believe you.”

“Shall we test it?” Peggy challenges with a charmed smirk.

“Now who’s the child?”

_You’re both children,_ Steve thinks, rolling his eyes.

Peggy takes fortifying a sip from her a cup. “Are you considering doing it again after all?”

“Maybe.” Bucky replies with a quiet word. And Steve decides_ no_, no way in hell is he letting Bucky do that again; not after the way it left him on the boat; spooked and distanced. 

“I’m surprised.” Peggy comments. _Me fucking too,_ Steve thinks with alarm. “You seemed like---”

“I’m not talking the honeytrap stuff.” Bucky interrupts lowly, leaning closer so they’re speaking in private in the reflection of the glass. “I’m not doing - _that_ again, no way…but other stuff? I…if I don’t have to worry about people touching me like I reckon I’d…I’d reckon be able to keep my cool. Get stuff done, you know? What do you think?”

“It’s not my decision, Barnes.”

“But if it was?”

Peggy opens her mouth to answer, then purses her lips and shakes her head minutely. “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Because you don’t want to upset Steve, right? Because he probably won’t want me to do it?”

“No - not because I don’t want to upset Steve. I’m not answering because I will not influence your decision in any which way. We talked about motivations, yes? What’s yours for considering it? Mine’s what I told, plus…” she allows, looking sideways and having to admit, “I do like the danger. I…like you lot like to say; get off on it.”

“I figured that when you nearly crashed that truck into Steve’s giant ass.”

“I didn’t crash,” she utters primly, “I merely braked very quickly.”

“Into a tree.”

“It didn’t move out of my way in time.”

“It. Was. A. Tree.” Both Bucky and Steve say at the same time, in the same tone and pacing; one inside the café and the other round the corner. Steve blinks as he realizes they’ve matched dialogue.

“Mo.Ti.Va.Tion.” Peggy spaces out at his friend in return.

“Value.” Bucky answers eventually, sounding like he’s considered it. “Being useful. It’s been a while, you know, actually being good at something.”

“You‘re good at shooting.”

“Shooting doesn’t count. Shootings just killing people.” he concludes, “I want to be good at something useful that isn’t…well, something that isn’t f’ffing murder.”

Steve closes his eyes - _now isn’t that a statement like anything else._ And Bucky always acts like it’s nothing to him; not anymore;_ ‘you get used to it’_ he’d said to Steve in Belgium. It’s been five months now; and Steve’s not used to it - and clearly despite what he said Bucky isn’t used to it either. Or if he is - he certainly doesn’t like it. Of them both; and of Peggy, people always say they are naturals in this fight; of this war. But Steve doesn’t want to be the effigy of a war that’s already killed likely fifty million people and still counting.

“This kinda thing - it gives you another sort of worth, you know…” Bucky continues, “might an idea, like you said, with my face. And to…to break up the cycle.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to go back out”

“Of course I’m not saying that.” Bucky says, “I _just said_ I want to be useful. I’m just trying to work out_ all the ways_ I could be useful. The more useful us lot can make ourselves the quicker we can take out Hitler and Schmitt, get this shit done, and go home. Right? Don’t you want to go home?”

“Of course I do.”

“Where even is home for you, actually?”

“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about”

_Nope. _Steve is not letting them talk about that any longer -_ time to nip this in the bud._ Peggy’s hardly made it another word until Bucky’s head is flicking in the reflection at the sound of his footsteps outside. She stands to greet him with the brush against his arm; and unveils his order safely protected under a fluffy tea cosy. “Safe and Pepper free,” she promises.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, kissing her cheek. “Sorry I took a while, can’t rush God as you like to say.” He kicks Bucky’s chair leg under the table; who flickers a brief smile at him.

. . .

“You seen Peggy lately?”

Steve glances at him, raises an eyebrow. “Oh. It’s _Peggy_ now it is?”

“Yeah alright, don’t have a coronary.”

Steve laughs, and they settle back over the map; an hour ahead before their scheduled meeting with the commandos in the break Steve should be taking off after his long meeting with Senator Brandt, Colonel Saunders and Churchill’s aide. Bucky brought him his lunch when he realized Steve was being a godawful workaholic as per usual.

They have not told the commandos, or anyone in the base aside from Dugan who sussed it by the passing looks between them, of the childish prank war they’ve had going - not in the least to save Steve from admitting to Gabe that Bucky’s returned the favour twofold. They’ve just allowed it to finish with a handshake - right after Steve dropped salt in Bucky’s water when he wasn’t looking.

“Not since yesterday morning; think she went off to the coast to meet someone.”

“SSR or MI-whatever the hell the number is today?”

Steve shrugs, smiles self-deprecatingly. “Who knows. I’d rather not know than have her be forced to lie to me, so.” Bucky nods. “Why you asking?”

“Just wondered, you know, if you two have had a chance to--well, you know.” Steve glances from side to side; but they’re alone in the room. “I mean get closer, get some alone time not what you’re probably thinking.”

Steve waggles his eyebrows now he’s sure they’re alone. “And what am I thinking?” Bucky doesn’t take the bait, just raises his eyebrows.

“I think we both know if I say get in her pants you’re going to throw” Steve throws a pencil at him. Bucky harrumphs, “Yeah, I figured.”

Steve chuckles. “We talked. Found some time alone without the Bucky chaperone.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m a chaperone now, am I?”

“You have been tagging along with us a lot.” Steve comments.

“Or she’s tagging along with us,” Bucky counters, “you don’tdo you want me to”

Steve throws another pencil at him, cancelling the sentence. He has a soft grin on his face. “Course not. I like the two of you getting on. Makes me…makes me happy.”

“That’s real swell for you, pal.” Bucky sidles, curving round the table as Steve realizes he now has to actually go retrieve the pencils he’s just used as projectiles. “Glad to know our sharing is working.”

“ShaI’m not something to be shared, you jerk. I'm”

“A strong independent woman - now you definitely sound like her.”

Steve pushes a hand against his head from behind, ruffling his hair with his retrieved pencils in the other on his way back round. Bucky laughs, craning his neck and attempting to slap the hand away, but Steve’s too fast. “Now you definitely sound jealous.”

“You wish.” Bucky tells him, gesturing for Steve to hand over the pencils so he can sharpen them for him. He tosses them over gently this time, then focuses back on the map.

He trails a hand over the paper and the information they have, going over manoeuvres and what else; juggling plans for another two bases with what they have so far; as they can’t move on any without more intel. They’re still waiting. If Steve had his way; if he had clearance to leave; he’d go with the howlers and scout themselves to get it done. Bureaucracy is so slow, and out on the field he doesn’t have deal with constant press interviews, which he’s been half laden with; always a bonus.

He asks after a second. “What about you?”

“What about me what?”

“You find anyone? There’s a lot of friendly girls down at the pubs that like themselves a good-old American solider.”

He grunts. “Not really.” Then: “not my types.”

_Or more like you’re just not interested. _There was a redhead last week, smiling at him, and another brunette looking at him when they went to St Patrick’s - and they are most definitely Bucky’s type. He knows Bucky’s type more than he knows his own type. It’d be good for him to find someone; the girls he’s been involved with in the past; bar one, have always made him happy. It could help with getting him back to the good-old Bucky he has always known. He’s changed, but he’s not changed _that _much - Steve believes at least.

“I only thought...it might be an idea. Take your mind off...well, off Norway. I know you’re still thinking about_ it_.”

Bucky glances up at him, eyes hooded, takes a gulp of Steve’s unsabotaged water and marks a circle and a note of importance on the map. He taps it to make Steve look, who adds a second mark about two miles from Bucky’s. _Good spot there. _

“You don’t know that, actually. ” He says. “Begs the question why you’re thinking about me thinking about it though.”

“I’m keeping an eye - it can’t have been...fun,” Bucky scoffs. “Or comfortable, or _anything_ like that. Peg did mention he was a bit of a cock. A Toddle, tallywack, a dick...”

Bucky groans, half annoyance and half amusement. He mutters something that sounds vaguely like; “she thinks she’s _so_ funny.”

“I just…I hated that that was something that was ever asked of you. I wish I could have taken it for you. I will next time.”

“Can we just focus on the map, please.” Bucky replies, “so we actually have something to give the boys when they get here.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, _don’t._” He snaps suddenly. Then blinks and sighs, mutters a: “sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Steve says quietly. “I just want you to know - it’s a situation you don’t have to worry about being put in again.” He squeezes his friend’s arm, who allows it for half a second then moves his arm and the rest of him out of touching distance. Steve scrunches his hand under the table. “_Buck._”

“Okay, thanks. I heard you. Thanks.” He forces out stiffly. “How about we just stick to you and getting your inexperienced ass some more experience, alright?”

He sighs. “Alright. We can do that.” Steve says, but he’s not happy about it. Then the words hit; “no wait,_ we_ will not do that.**_** I**_** will do that. You are staying out of itI’ve had your interference before; it has never helped.”

“Thought things change.”

“_Some things don’t. _You’re a terrible wing-man.”

“I am an_ immaculate_ wing-man.” Bucky disagrees. “I just have terrible choice in picking girls good enough for you. You’ve got that handled yourself - jumping straight for the; you would think; unattainable, beautiful beyond words, _not funny,_” Steve snickers, “trained **_**spy**_** from the other side of the world. And succeeding at it. Clearly I have never given you as much credit as you deserve.”

“Apparently not.” Steve replies mildly after a hum. “Ah here; what about this? We could…” He trails off into a potential plan; then several alternatives for how they would handle it depending on the different types of weaponry they may encounter. Exoskeletons, energy machine guns, tanks, electrical batons that they’ve come across, or just regular artillery. Better to be over-prepared than under prepared.

Bucky glances up at him after about twenty minutes, “you really like her, huh? Reckon you…reckon you’d marry her?”

Steve considers it. “It’s a little early; and quick - but you’ve got to be quick in times like this. Live fast, live young. but…yeah, yeah I think I would. One day.”

“Marriage is more than_ like_, Steve, marriage is _love_ most of the time.”

He says, “I guess it is, yeah.”

When he returns the look - Bucky’s flicking through files.

“Buck.”

“What?”

“I want you to talk to me - about anything. Without vetoes.” Bucky’s face flattens again. “I’m serious. I mean it.”

“I _know_ you mean it.” He replies. “You’ve said it a hundred times. And I’ve heard you a hundred times. You want me to talk. How could I not know you mean it? So listen to me, meaning it, when I tell you to drop it, okay?”

“I don’t”

“_Stop_.”

Steve gives him a look; and then the door opens and the boys come in; loaded with map-rolls and new gadgets Stark’s given them to test. They start talking so quickly it’s not something to be ignored - so they go over it all; and then Steve lays out what they know. Bucky, from the other end of the table points out the recommendations they’ve come up with; and asks for any of theirs. They match in how professional and concealed they are. They’ll have to present to Command soon; so it’s best they have everything down to the last pin.

Steve takes a gulp of the water beside him; spits it out, coughing and spluttering.

“Whoa, hey, Rodgers, you good?”

His mouth burns with salt.

“Something wrong with the water?”

Bucky’s smirking downwards, leaning over the map from where he must have swapped the canteens when Steve wasn’t looking.

Steve targets his half-glare on the culprit. “Thought we called a peace treaty, you jerk.”

“Too tempting to miss. Should have got a signature.” Steve flicks water at his face. Bucky admits, “fine. I officially sign your treaty. By order of the SSR, you are safe from me.”

. . .

Peggy interrupts their meeting.

“You’re going to want to see this.” 

"Where did you come from?" Dugan asks, "I thought you left yesterday."

"Just come with me. Please." The look she directs at Steve identifies that it's something serious. She leads them down a few steps to the room they viewed their first advert in, small and box-like - concrete on all sides. It’s still set up with a projector and a line of chairs like a cinema. She locks it after they enter. Howard and Philips are inside, the latter with his arms crossed. Howard’s still sporting brown and yellow bruise mottles around his jaw and cheek - with remnants of blue still around his eye, but the swelling has entirely gone down.

He still doesn’t believe for one second the culprit was a father avenging his daughter’s virtue, but it shouldn't surprise him considering both Bucky and Peggy make an act out of lying to him as well. Not that he’s bitter of course.

“About time.” Philips mutters, stood next to -

“Antonio!” Dugan cheers, walking forward to slap a hand on his shoulder. Antonio nods and smiles a little, and claps him and several of the others back when they do the same. “Didn’t know you were this side of the border.”

“That ‘s the point. You’re not supposed to know when and where I am at any given moment.”

“Still! It’s good to see you man!”

“It won’t be when you see what he’s got.” Philips grunts, “Show them.” Antonio moves to the projector.

“What’s this?” Gabe asks, “we watching one of our films - could have taken us to an actual cinema for that.”

“It’s not one of ours.”

A beat of silence reigns at that declaration, confusion heavy. “One of my colleagues managed to smuggle a film reel out of Greece.” Antonio explains, loading it up.

The projector starts spinning with a click, showering the wall with light and grainy black spots until the film flickers on and an image drops down into the square of light. It’s a shot of a file, sepia toned, with a dark symbol that looks as though it could be a diagram of a molecule in it’s base form; Steve’s seen a few in Erksine’s work about genetics. There’s a faded stamp of the Hydra emblem visible in the corner of the projection; disappearing into the shadow of the photograph. The focus is on a file tab on the side of the file; labelled MASTERMANN PROJECT. No one sits in the allocated chairs.

An unseen voice comes out over the speakers. _“After years of planning and research, my time has come at last. Project Mastermann is a reality.” _

Bucky tenses behind his shoulder - Steve, in the small room hears his heart ramp up. “What?” He whispers over his shoulder, eyes stuck on the projection. Bucky doesn’t answer.

The picture changes, dropping out to another still; this one to a profile picture of a man; the Hydra emblem again stamped, darker, over a corner. And Steve_ knows._ Without thinking he reaches back a hand to Bucky’s wrist and squeezes to keep him in place. He expects him to tug it back - but Steve thinks he might be so frozen he hasn’t realized Steve’s hand is there.

_“History shall record,”_ the voice continues, _“that Doctor Armin Zola was the first to unlock the secrets of the human genome. And thus my immortality is assured.”_

“What the fuck is this?” Gabe asks, tense.

Peggy catches his eye. “We’re not the only ones with propaganda. This is one of theirs.”

“Motherfucker.” Dugan swears quietly.

“It, and others are being projected in nearly every single Hydra base and in the local towns. It’s going live in the controlled cities soon - and -” Antonio says, “they apparently have a way to take over the national radio channels in London, France, Berlin, Denmark, Ireland and America. Others pending.”

“That’s not possible.” Falsworth spits out quickly.

“My colleague was in deep. He thinks they’ve hacked the systems. They’re going to broadcast nation-**_**s**_**-wide.”

The picture changes - flicking through a montage of Hitler’s troops, then Hydra’s.

“_Was_ in deep?” Steve questions. “Is he here, can we speak to him?”

“No.” Comes the grim reply. “Shot; at our rendezvous.” Antonio replies, voice hard. “He fired back with his last breaths to ensure I could get away with the package.”

The picture changes to another still. It’s of Johann Schmidt without his mask. You can’t see the vivid redness of his new skin but you _can_ see it’s unnatural, the shadows sit eerie and monstrous in the hollows of his face, and his lack of nose is profound.

“_Using the blood of my benefactor Johann Schmidt,_” Zola’s voice continues, and _oh_ is Steve memorizing every single lilt of his voice - curve of the accent - committing it to the memory-picture he keeps in his head of the man. The existing picture makes his blood boil with every moment it exists and he wants it gone forever; not built up with more detail; but it’s his responsibility, his pain and anger to bear until the man is brought to justice. He’ll let the picture go for sure when he knows absolutely and completely that Bucky will be safe from him. “_I will replicate and surpass the work of the traitor Abraham Erksine._”

Steve anger builds further; Abraham Erksine was not a traitor - he was a good kind man. _He was a genius, and you murdered him for it._

The picture changes again - to a photo of Steve from behind mid fight; a surveillance still or taken from one of their own adverts. He’s not sure. The shield on his back is the focus.

“_The Americans believe they have created a perfect human specimen in their precious super solider. They are fools._” Another photograph from the side, black spots spinning over the footage; the projector buzzes with power. “_The perfection of the human body is a false goal. What does it profit us to perfect something ‘inherently’ limited? No… to truly evolve we must improve upon it. Herr Schmidt has secured a remote research facility and outfitted it with Hydra forces for my protection and assistance_.”

Falsworth darts forward and demands, “Do we know where that is?” as the slide dares to snap to the view of a building; and then onto a wider view.

“We don’t.” Howard says grimly.

“Can we track it down?”

“We’re trying. _That_,” Philips points, “looks like a satellite disc or the edge of one. We’re cross referencing it but - the bastards are cocky.”

“Too cocky?” Morita asks hopefully.

“You tell me. Their broadcasting this and we’ve got no leads.” Howard says, “but this bit here:” the slide drops. The _Horst-Wessel-Lied_ anthem with no lyrics starts playing in the background.

“_Herr Schmidt has also honored me with the loan of the Tesseract Cube to aid in my research_…”

“There that.” Howard points. “We have no idea what the hell it is but we think that’s what's powering the weapons you’ve been bringing back.”

Steve remarks: “The ones that don’t obey physics.”

“The ones that don’t obey physics: yeah. Exactly.” Howard confirms.

“That…that does not lookI don’t know,” Jacques notes. “But it does not look like something man could have made.”

“We thought the same about electricity once.”

“Electricity obeys the laws of physics.” Steve cuts in. “That’s the difference.”

“Where the hell did it come from then?”

_Somewhere not from this world? Is it something science, or is it something mystical? _Hydra began as a cult - before the Red Skull. He’s come across references to mythology before - symbols, drawings, names. Norse myths, Roman myths, Germanic myths, rams heads; upfront and inverted like the Devil, tentacles…all sorts. The Hydra itself, with its: _‘cut off one head and two more will grow in it’s place’ _is a Greek monster of myth. It was one of the twelve labours of Hercules.

Schmidt came to power because he shared Adolf Hitler’s interest in the occult - that’s what they say; and his belief in it’s combination with science - though Steve has yet to see the combination_…but maybe the combination has been _**_**right in front of him this entire time**_******.**** Schmidt created the weapons that harness it - but he didn’t create the energy source - that’s from something else._ From somewhere else._

Hercules defeated the Hydra; but he didn’t do it alone. With each head he cut - his nephew would cauterize the wound with a flaming torch so nothing could grow back. In a way that’s what _he’s_ been doing to Hydra - burning every base he finds to the ground so nothing can be built in it’s foundations. _Maybe he needs more than just flames to beat the bastards._

Zola continues on, “…_under his supervision of course._”

“That means they’re together. Or have been since Poland.” Steve forces out in a immediate. “When was this made?”

There’s another picture of the elusive base, this time of the roof where long barrels extend out; pointing at the sky; air defence measures. _“He will not be disappointed. I shall work tirelessly until I have unlocked the secrets of the genome - I am, and have been close_ -”

Bucky’s arm starts shaking, his pulse thudding through Steve’s palm; Steve backs up a step closer but can’t take his eyes off the projection.

“_and I have taken them places the traitor never imagined…or perhaps feared to tread_.”

It returns to the first slide; MASTERMANN PROJECT at the forefront. _“It is my goal. My purpose. My destiny_.”

A crowd of heavy deep voices shout, “_HAIL HYDRA_!”

The projection cuts out. It’s silent aside from the clicking of the projector, and Steve repeats the question he didn’t get an answer to.

Antonio shrugs, but it’s tense and not at all careless. “This year. That’s all we know.”

“They could still be together. If we find that base; the one not on the map - we can get them both. Take out the shepherds - and the sheep will fall with them.”

“Don’t know whether to call them shepherds or wolves, Cap.” Gabe says.

“Or snakes.” Morita throws in.

“Whatever you want to call them,” Philips says. “Schmidt’s the one who militarized it; pushed it towards global politics. Hydra isn’t loyal to Hydra, Hydra is loyal to him. He’s always going to be the target - Rodgers is right.”

Steve bites the side of his cheek; and starts off the conversation again. “The fact that they put _photographs _of the building on that reel says a lot - either they didn’t think we’d get a hold of this”

“Or they did.” Peggy adds grimly. “They’re mocking us. Gloating.” Steve agrees.

“But why now?”

“Why not now.” Philips answers that question. “You’ve assaulted four main bases in the space of five months, Rodgers. More when you count the weapons caches you’ve also come across, forgetting their ability for intercept our intelligence shipments - There comes a point where they can’t contain the spread of information. They need the morale for their troops, they need fear in the civilians and their enemies. They’re covering their assesmaking themselves the more prominent power.”

Antonio says: “Red Skull is as much of a symbol to them as you are to us.”

“Zola too.” Philips grunts. “Stark, what the hell are you doing?”

Howard’s over by the projector again; rewinding the reel and trying to freeze it in place. “Howard,” Peggy calls sharply, “you’ll break it.” She says when she sees he’s not doing it carefully. She comes over; “what are you trying to do?” He answers her in a murmur; and she takes over.

Steve turns back to Antonio and Philips, still near the right wall of the room. “Do we know what Project Mastermann is?”

“I found some reference to that - in e-a base once. Um, _Belgique__._” Dernier says, suddenly.

Peggy nods from the corner of Steve’s eye; stood side by side with Howard and speaking over her shoulder. “It’s mentioned in documents but not explained.”

“His version of the serum surely.”

“Yeah. Must be.”

Bucky's pulse stutters - he avoids Steve’s eyes when he looks back at him.

“Right, here, got it.” Howard says; and when Steve turns the projection is on but not running; Peggy has a hold on it so it’s stuck on the still of the building roof. Steve’s eyes zero in on the satellite dish in the corner; calculating - it must be large, at least three or four foot in diameter. Howard drags his focus onto something else. “The guns. Are they what you saw in that town raid in Czechoslovakia?”

“Oh Jesus, tell me it’s not.” Dugan vows.

Steve’s eyes shift; focused on the weapons, remembering the obliteration startlingly well. He wrote a lengthy report on it for Howard when he returned, as best as his memory could serve - which is a whole lot - but obviously he had no pictures. Command could only go on his words - and visual descriptors down to the last detail are not often recommended in reports that require brief, cursory essentials. He should have drawn Howard a sketch of it.

Steve purses his lips, sucking on his cheek. He nods.

“_Shit._” Gave swears at the confirmation, as Steve’s the only one able to confirm it. He’s the only one who actually saw inside the barn; the rest were covering or dodging - they never saw the real source.

“Screw those things.” Falsworth utters. “Bloody hell. So much for getting them out of the enemies hands.”

“They could have built more.” Morita suggests.

Dugan cuts in. “Or they could of just _had_ more - and not bothered to do another test run.”

“You’re sure?” Howard asks him quietly as the others bicker. Steve nods again.

“Same barrel detail - looks the same dimensions - just actually installed in place. They’ll have that combined with radar now.”

“And periscopes from below most likely too.” Antonio adds. “They use a combination in my experience - even beforewhatever the hell that is.” He waves at the projection.

“That” Steve says, “is something that decimated half a mile radius of stone streets in a shock-wave; just gone, liquefied. When I damaged the core of_ one_. Might have set off the two others, might not have. It’s worse than the weapon that exoskeleton..._thing_ had in Italy.” Mark #72 he remembers - there were seventy one of those things already made; and Steve blew up three of these guns in that town hall. He counts about four on the roof of that one projection alone.

“They’re not stable.” He finishes. “The operator could barely control the recoil.”

“Either way the technology is not getting dangerously close to our side - _it’s overtaken it._ If he gets close to Erksine’s work…they’ll be unstoppable. To every operative on the ground - I want more of those reels. Then we might have an insight into what we’re up against.” Philips orders sharply. “Especially seeing as they have no problem rubbing it in our faces.”

He starts striding out the room.

“Where are you going?” Howard asks.

“To get myself a goddamn coffee Stark.” He growls and disappears, and Steve shares a long look at Peggy.

The look lingers, and her eyes flick sharply to his right; he realizes Bucky’s wrist in his is gone. Peggy says, “Go.”

He finds him locked in the bathroom, and stays, waiting outside the door instead of outside the stall. He screws his eyes shut, pain deep in his own stomach as he hears Bucky throwing up; vomit splattering against the metal toilet. He runs out of things to bring up after three minutes, but he keeps dry heaving for twice that amount, and then seems to rest for a long time afterwards. Twenty minutes have passed since Steve managed to track him down before he emerges; pale and clammy. Steve hands him a tissue to wipe his mouth, followed by a tin of mints.

“Are you”

“No.”

“Well do you want to”

“No.” Bucky repeats, wiping his mouth. “I’m going to…I’m going to go lie down.”

“Okay.” Steve says, his insides warring again as they always do when something like this happens. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”

. . .

It’s a much busier week in the SSR bunker than the last; and the one before that. And, though no one but them and those high-above have seen it; the reel seems to have acted as a incendiary today; they need twice as many secretarial staff and personnel to handle the outbound orders being fired out - against Hydra, and against the Nazis. It’s May 19th; and any time Steve is out of the base he ensures the BBC broadcast is playing within his earshot. He knows it’s coming, but not when; only the code to listen out for.

The influx of people means the number of SSR members who have joined Steve and co. in sleeping at the base have increased. At first when they returned to London Steve had argued over having a single room to himself; as he preferred to bunk with his men. It was an argument, without knowing there was an argument; that he had apparently lost. He found he appreciated the loss later, considering the number of times he’s woken up with arousal pooled in his belly; or hard in his groin.

Giving up his room for others is the easiest thing he’s done for months, and so he’d ended up in a dormitory of nine bunk-beds, shared with a random mix of commandos, personnel and spies. He’s lucky this day; in that yesterday he moved from that dormitory to a room of three; bunking with Dernier and Bucky this time. He always tries to organize it so he’s bunked with Bucky - which is something that is probably rather obvious to the other commandos.

Dernier’s out in the lab, and will be late - something about a new explosive Howard’s been messing with - so Steve enters the room quietly and sets himself up at the desk to sketch and think; away from the main bunker. Bucky’s curled up in his bedroll, seemingly asleep. His math book is on the table, as is his toothbrush and the open tin of mints from this morning. Steve’s fed up of written words; has decided to move on to pencil lines and shading. Philips will probably mince him for wasting paper, but it settles him. He’s halfway through drawing the Liverpool docks they landed on when Bucky speaks up from behind him.

“It’s not his version of the serum.”

Steve spins in his chair to see Bucky’s turned over to face him, hair ruffled and looking appropriately dreadful for how much he threw up earlier in the day. “What?”

“Project Mastermann. It’s not his serum trials; it’s something else.”

“How do you know?” Steve asks hollowly, thinking: _is this it?_

Bucky swallows, “He called it - them - some, something different.”

“Them?” Steve asks, voice still muted; but surprised. “There was more than one?”

Bucky shrugs at him; but frees an arm from the covers and holds up a shaky number_ two_ with his fingers._ Two trials. Two _**_**different**_**_ trials? Two different_**_** serums**_**_? What? That’s new. He thought_

“What did he call them?” Steve asks lowly.

“_Vitalität__.” _Bucky says after a moment, voice hoarse and scratchy. It sounds like it hurts to speak from how dry it must be. “And_Stehver__e-n-__möge_n, or _Stenvenogon_, I think. Something like that. Both. Sometimes one or another.”

“_Vitalität__.” _Steve sounds out. “That means…Vitality.”

“I guess.” Bucky mumbles to his guessed translation.

“And…_Stehver__\--__möge_n?” He frowns in confusion; going over all the German he knows in his head for any word that sounds even vaguely similar; or something shorter he can use to break it down to it’s vowels, consonants, and tense. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Buck”

“_I don’t._” He stresses. “I don’t. I’m not lying to you. I don’t know.”

“Did you…not ever look to…well, to find out?”

The look Bucky gives him is so full of things he can barely separate it all. His hand disappears back underneath his bedroll; which climbs higher up his neck. So quiet that Steve’s old hearing never would have been able to pick up, he asks: “Why would I want to do that?”

“Well to”

“Not everyone needs to throw themselves at a wall to pick apart an answer, Steve. You might, but knowing the answer to something doesn’t automatically make it better. It just brings up more stuff.” Steve sighs, about to open his mouth. Bucky cuts him off before he can speak. “It’s just what he called them. All he called them. Mastermann must be something else. Thought you should know.”

Steve opens his mouth to say, _‘Yes. Yes, that’s so important. Is there anything else you want to talk about? How are you feeling? What else do you remem_

Bucky turns back over and tugs the covers over his head. Steve doesn’t say anything at all.

. . .

He’s spiralling a little again, migrating back to the beginning. Steve can see it easily in just two days. He was doing so much better…

. . .

As time has gone on, Steve has noticed - there are moments where Bucky leaves.

Not in the physical sense or even in the emotional sense - but in the sense of _awareness_. He noticed it the first time in Italy, truly, and then in London in March - but the more he’s thought about it - the more he’s sure there’s been other times. Times that have merely skimmed his awareness; circling around the oval of his consciousness. It’s never happened during the action, not at all; it has also never happened when they’ve had to be on edge and vigilant - but when they don’t - in the moments they know they’re secure and Bucky knows he doesn’t need to be present - it seems to happen…then there was the time that he was crying, rocking in place…_god_. Aside from the inexplicable presence of mind to stop it from occurring at the most essential of times - he doesn’t think Bucky has any control over it.

In the moments when he thinks Steve’s not looking he’ll stare quietly off into space, lost somewhere in a sight that nobody else can see. On the boat after Norway; he wasn’t gone all the way, but he didn’t step into help with the code-breaking until six or seven hours in; because until then he was _away_ with a cooling cup of tea in his curled fingers, knees brought up to his chest. When he went to sip the tea after a long long hour, he seemed surprised that it was stone cold instead of still steaming hot. Steve and Peggy hadn’t said anything considering it’d been a hell of a night for him, with barely any sleep, and also with the consideration that he was likely still intoxicated, but Steve had wanted to. It was only fair to give him a well-deserved moment, and it’s unfortunate to say; that more importantly at the time; they had a code to break on a rapidly descending schedule.

It happened again yesterday, _properly_ \- Steve woke up in the morning to the sight of Bucky half dressed with one shoe on; sat on the bed and staring at the concrete, eyes stuck halfway to the left. Steve called to him; and he didn’t answer - not until Dernier turned over and fell out of bed with a crash. Then he’d blinked, a good few times, and tensed up; twisting and starting to go for his gun on the side table before he realized the source. Dernier, scratching his head, apologized; and when he turned back to put his other shoe on his friend’s face was carefully schooled, but Steve saw him checking the time on the clock way more than once.

Steve doesn’t just ache - he_ hurts_ for him in those brief snatches of silence, so much, because he can try to keep Bucky safe from bullets and shrapnel but he can’t save Bucky from himself.

Surely things would be better if he just _talked _to Steve. He needs to cut the spiral short somehow.

. . .

Bucky wakes up screaming again. He’s getting louder.

. . .

** _ **THE MINISTRY OF AMERICAN INFORMATION PRESENTS…** _ **

_CAPTAIN AMERICA_ _AND THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM!_

_This film was produced by the ARMY PICTORIAL SERVICE. _

_ _

_NARRATOR: Deep in the roots of the American character is independent pioneering; the spirit that takes in hardship and danger to become stronger. It is a natural inheritance._

_ _

It’s the big day; the big premiere of the first film; and the flashes of cameras are still resounding through his irises. He very much does not want to be here - he wants to be inside; he wants to be planning; he wants to be on the field.

Steve groans, sinking in his seat. “This is already going to be terrible.” He decides.

“Can’t be any worse that your old ones.” Morita says.

“You’ve never _seen_ any of my old ones.”

“I don’t need to. Just imagining it makes me want to cringe right the way down to my bones. Cringe so much there’d be no skin left.”

Steve swats him sarcastically on the arm. “You are so helpful, Jim. Thank you.”

“Well I _have_ seen one of your old ones.” Fletcher, who has reunited with them after a month, says from the other side. “Two of your old ones - I guarantee you this is much much better. Not that there was much of a bar to reach, mind you.”

“Please stop.” Steve whispers as the narration begins.

“It’s purely documenterial, is what I mean.” Fletcher says, “it’s not cheesy propaganda like the rest. It’s serious stuff. Honest to the gull, man.”

Steve nods, “yeah, okay. Thanks for the confidence Fletch.”

_“Across the whole of Europe raiders and guerrillas take and loosen the German grip - paving the way for the mass invasion - which alone can bring final victory._

_One of these forces is the Howling Commandos, among them - a combined force of American, British and French troops; three countries melded together under Captain America. They are a symbol of this new daring warfare - organized desperado's who form the advance guard for tomorrows Allied counterattacks. _

_For initiative and fearlessness they are the storm-troopers of land, sea and air.”_

Morita leans back over. “If it is terrible - it’s a shame you can’t get blitzed with the rest of us after to forget all about it.”

He rocks his head back against the cinema chair. “Don’t remind me.” He mutters; though Steve’s drinking plans of the night do not involve _Steve;_ for once he will be the _deliberately_ sober one. He glances down the line commandos. Gabe’s making bets with Morita how many times the two going to miraculously appear despite Fletch’s best efforts, Falsworth and Dernier are watching obediently, Bucky is ignoring the reel and biting his fingernails in boredom, tapping his other hand on his leg as he sits through it. Senator Brandt is glaring at him for the noise. Dugan looks rather excited to be on film.

He thinks: whiskey would be best. Whiskey or wine.

. . .

Eventually Steve has realized being considerate and kind and pandering to Bucky’s pretend wants and needs aren’t getting him anywhere, he just keeps avoiding all Steve’s questions. So Steve changes his tactics.

Before this, before the war; there was two ways to get Bucky to really talk, even more so than he would normally. One way was to get him drunk, and he’d _talk talk talk,_ and sometimes sing, until Steve was begging him to stop. The other way was to get him angry; angry enough so that in the heat of the moment he’d shout what he was feeling out into the world like a cathartic scream. The only potential problem with that scenario is the stubborn silent-treatment that followed, but Steve’s already getting that anyway; so what the hell; he clearly just has to keep the fury going long enough that Bucky bursts two times over.

He decides to do both; and spends the entire night plying Bucky with enough alcohol to have him stumbling and reckless, but still coherent. It’s much much harder than he thought it would be, but Jim’s usual misappropriated knock-off_ paint stripper_ hooch has raised his tolerance up to a whole new level it seems. He’s been told there was a lot of vodka available in Russia too. That’s probably it.

Bucky stumbles into him a little as they walk down the corridor of the hotel the commandos booked near their usual pub, the _Hook and Fiddle,_ instead of the one the army offered to requisition closer to the premiere, since this was where they’d planned on finishing their after-party.

“Bet you he throws up before morning.” Bucky wagers next him, referring to Dugan who they’ve just put to bed a few floors below; already drunkenly snoring on his side as they closed the door behind them.

“Screw that,” Steve says with a sober head, “Bet you Jim throws up before him.”

“Jim’s already thrown up.” Bucky informs him, and Steve shakes his head, huffing because _of course._ “Outside in the back alley when he went for a cigarette, about an inch away from my shoes.”

Steve glances down at his shoes which are, thankfully, clean; if a bit wet from the rain puddles from staggering under Dugan’s unhelpful weight. He kept outright trying to refuse their help because_ I can hold my drink, you little shits. I know where I’m going,_ right as he turned down the wrong street. “Guess that means I win then.” He elbows.

“Doesn’t count.”

“He’ll probably spew another time lets be honest,” Steve agrees, “reckon he’ll be okay?”

“Eh. Jones’ is keeping an eye.”

“Jones was seven whiskeys and two pints drunk himself.”

“Ooh,” Bucky mocks, “keeping count now you’re stuck as the resident responsible one, are we?” He waves the other hand in the same movement. “Monty and Jacques are there too, don’t worry about it.”

Steve shoves him a little, to see how much he sways or staggers when he does. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

The four boys had stayed longer at the pub to last call, and to play a couple of card games. They’d amassed a few English ladies to their table after the first few jives’, along with some more servicemen on leave, and last Steve saw Jones was attempting to teach Jacques how to play_ Texas Hold’ em_. He’d tried to recruit Steve to his team since there was so many at the table, as he still held the unbeaten winning streak in Poker, but he’d begged off when Bucky did - keeping an eye on Dugan (who really needed to hit the hay before he poisoned himself). Onto his second secret nightly agenda.

“Here we go.” Steve says as they come to room number 56, the matching number hanging off the key ring in Bucky’s hand. It takes a couple of moments of him twisting it in the lock, hands a little clumsy, but it opens on the third twist as he lets himself in. Steve follows in behind him.

The rooms much the same as Dugan’s, patterned wallpaper, a wardrobe, small desk and drawers; sash window overlooking the cobbled street and a half bombed building, and a double bed. It’s not as nice as the hotel Command wanted to put them up in for the premiere, but it’s more than enough, and Steve feels; more their style. The bed sheets are still fairly thick, as it’s still English weather, but not as thick as when they stayed in during winter. Bucky checks the wardrobe and pulls out the extra blanket from the top shelf anyway, and tosses it haphazardly on the bed.

Steve rolls his eyes and unfolds it fully, laying it out properly over the top and smoothing out the corners, knowing how no matter the weather Bucky always likes extra layers.

Bucky kicks off his shoes by the door and tosses his jacket on the chair. He sways a little, “Oi, get out.” He calls out with a tipsy grin, “this is my room for once, you’ve got your own.”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Bucky glances at him quickly and pulls a face, something extremely aggravated coming over it for a second. It disappears as quick as it came, and Bucky’s face schools into it’s usual poker face. “Oh yeah? What about? All the looks I was getting in the bar, don’t tell me you’re jealous now?”

_Yeah there was attention_, Steve thinks, _but you didn’t look twice at any of them. I’ve never once seen you refuse a dance until tonight._ As an idea its unimaginable; impossible even, for someone who knows Bucky as well as Steve does - _or_, he thinks, _did._

“You’ve got Carter, haven’t you?” Bucky continues, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too, you know?”

“Oh I know.” He agrees, “I wouldn’t dare either, considering she shot at me the last time another woman smacked one on me good and proper.”

“Shot _at_ your bulletproof shield, _technically_.” Bucky throws his own words from Scotland back at him.

_(Come to think of it...it is a bit of a pattern that both the people he loves have fired bullets at him in the process of proving something, normally his own obtuseness. He clearly does have a type.)_

“Whatever. Actually I was hoping we could talk about you.”

“Me?” Bucky says innocently, “what about me? I’m good.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” Steve makes his voice as unconvinced as he can accomplish. He succeeds with his inferance when the back of Bucky's neck stiffens.

“Because I am.” Bucky repeats, not looking at him but voice twinging a little harder.

“I just thought it be good to clear the air.”

“Last time I checked nothing needed to be cleared.”

Steve scoffs, _What world are you living in Buck?_

“Not where from I’m standing. There’s a lot that needs to be said, quite honestly.”

Bucky sighs, and slams his watch down on the desk a little harder than he probably should once he unbuckles it from his wrist. “And honestly,I think _you’ve _said enough on this subject already.”

“Exactly.” Steve agrees flatly. “I’m not the problem here.”

“Jesus Christ, really?” Bucky curses, spinning to look at him. “You really want to do this, again?”

“Nothing got done or sorted the other times, so yes.” Steve says in reply to the very same question Bucky asked him in New York, catching Steve trying to enlist, _again_. “I hardly see how it’s so wrong to ask how you’re doing.”

“It’s not.” Bucky retaliates. “If it was the first time; but this close to being the_ hundredth_.”

“Clearly you’re not doing a good job of convincing me.”

“Oh forI'm working stuff out, alright. _I’m fine out here-_-”

“Like hell you are; the way you’ve been acting.” Steve baits.

Bucky blanches at him from the tone, but bristles like Steve knew he would and has been waiting for. “Excuse me?” He adds, almost a hiss, and shakes his head. “Watch it Steve,” he then warns, “no actually, get out. I want to go to bed.”

“Not until we talk about it.”

“Oh my" Bucky groans, rubbing his eyes and stumbling to the side. “Would you fucking knock it off? I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not!” Steve snaps, “You haven’t laughed properly in weeks. You look fucking empty nearly all the time - even when you are actually here in your head and not god knows where else”

“Everyone looks like that out here!”

“Everyone looks tired. You've looked like you haven’t slept for a year for months. Why is that Buck, huh? What’s the problem, what’s so bloody terrible all the time?”

“Nothing.” He bites out.

“Nothing? Sure seemed like something last night when you screamed out so loud you could have drawn all of Hydra to us if we’d been on the front, then we’d have been a bit screwed wouldn’t we?”

“Steve, stop it! I mean it, _right now._” Bucky warns, voice getting hotter. _Come on, come on._

“I’m just saying that maybe if you talked about the elephant in the room then maybe there wouldn’t be such a problem. Maybe it would fix it for you, huh? Maybe you’d stop screaming out at night”

“Shut up”

“Crying out for _mama and papa_,” Steve keeps pushing, feeling a sick at the route he’s taken this down but it’s needs to be done. Bucky needs to vent or make a decision to squash this, one way or another; it can’t go on. His friend very nearly flinches back from him. “Or going without sleep for so long you loose your mind and make stupid shitty decisions. Forgetting where our rendezvous is." Steve reminds him pointedly. "It’s gonna’ get someone killed one day, what if it’s one of the guys, huh? What then?”

“That’s not fair!” Bucky speaks, looking pained. Pained and less angry. "You know that's not fair."

“I've tried being fair." Steve replies, "I've been fair by letting so much shit like that go when I shouldn't have...there's got to be a line." Bucky looks away, eyebrows furrowed together and biting his lips, his hands are clasped into fists. They're shaking.

"What did I do?" He asks quietly. _What did I do for you to suddenly draw a line on it? Why tonight?_

_You spent sixteen minutes and twenty three seconds staring ahead while I crouched in front of you this morning trying to get your attention._ Steve thinks. _You starting talking about deciding to go back into espionage, which isn't healthy for you right now; an expressly bad coping mechanism. _

_It makes me worry about your judgement. _

_You held up two fingers. You told me there was two serum trials. You told me their names. You told me things you've always claimed you didn't know, things you claimed you didn't remember. Things you lied to me about._

_And then you said no, and you stopped. Lied more._

"It's what you're not doing. You're not talking to me."

"I don't want to"

"I know it’s been a lot." He begins to continue, "But you can’t isolate yourself"

"How am I isolating myself?" Bucky quickens back, clearly in his defensive state, cutting him off. "I came with you tonight, I talk up at meetings, I go to church with you twice a week; II, I talk to the boys. I play cards andI'm not isolating myself."

"Not as much as you could." Steve counters, "you've got to talk about it."

"I don't have to do _shit_." Bucky says, now more vehement; arm twitching. His back straightens the way it does when he's ready in all hell to defend himself. Steve's seen the motion; that stature half a hundred times in half a hundred boxing matches. _This is good,_ Steve decides,_ if he's defensive he back on the path to an explosion of anger, and not pained silence. Good, get him back on the path you need._ "I don't have to do anything I don't want to do, I'm free! That's the point"

"Free?" Steve expresses disbelieving, a notch louder. He takes a step towards him. "Free, you want to tell me you feel free right now? That you feel happy? _Seriously._ You really wanna try that on with me? I know you Bucky, I know what you look like when you're happy. I know what you look like when you're fine, and you. Are. Not. Fine. I can see"

"Not enough!" Bucky snaps, "I'm trying alright? I'm trying to be_will you just listen to me for one fucking second, you're not listening_<strike> </strike> "

Yeah, well, that's because Steve's not about to listen to the exact same excuses he's been hearing for months now. He tells Bucky that.

"Because it's more of the same."

"It's more of the same because you keep asking!" Bucky flares.

"For gods sake BuckyYou can't just not talk about what happened!"

“Well, what am I supposed to say?” Bucky yells, snapping properly now, and shoves him backwards. “Which part do you want me to deal with first, huh? The part where” He cuts himself off suddenly, half-abort; half-sudden choke, and looks like he almost swallows his tongue to keep it in.

“Anything!” Steve shouts, knowing he’s close again. Someone bangs on the wall to try and silence them. “Literally anything; so long as you’re talking. Or if not, then that you’re going to commit to finding a way of dealing with this - because I’ll tell you right now pal, you’re not!”

“Dealing with it?” Bucky spits out in a hiss, “Just because it doesn’t look like it to you doesn’t mean I’m not _dealing_ with it. I’m getting through it in my way, and I told you, I don’t want to talk right now!”

“We all know what it’s about,” Steve carries on, determined. “You yell out Zola’s name half the time, that kinda’ gives it away. And so what, he stuck you with a couple of needles and now you can’t handle it?”

“_Steve!”_ Bucky snaps, aghast, hurt and angry. The banging continues and yells start up too, echoing in the room. He raises a hand, shaking with rage. “I’m trying really hard not to, but I swear to god, if one more word comes out of your mouth that isn’t goodnight I will _knock your fucking teeth out.”_

Steve scoffs, “Please. I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky darts a step towards him and yanks his fist and body back. He shakes his head, hissing in a breath. He starts pacing. “I’m not doing this with you. Get out, get out right now.”

“Why? 'Cause you don’t like what I’m saying, the way I’m acting? Welcome to my world! I’m trying so hard for you Bucky, I’m trying to help but I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me!”

“I said,” Bucky snaps out, pausing and shaking with each word break. “I - don’t - want - to - talk - about - it!”

Steve throws up his hands. “You don’t want to talk about it, you don’t want to work through it, you won’t let me help, what else am I supposed to do, Bucky?! Cause I’m out of ideas here - “

“Maybe I don’t want your help!”

“Clearly! You couldn’t be more fucking obvious about it! And so what, I’m supposed to just stand here and watch you not sleep, or scream yourself awake - watch you, watch you fire bullets out without any feeling and become _less and less_ of yourself every single day - that’s hardly helping either!”

Bucky turns away from him, shaking, and Steve grabs his arm and yanks him right back before he can fully turn. He’s not letting him walk out of it this time. “No! You’re not leaving here withou---”

_Snap! _Steve hears the sound, the _thud; _before he feels it. And it vibrates right the way through his jaw, pinging off the bone and rattling Steve's teeth. 

Bucky cracks Steve good and proper, and shoves him away with enough force to send Steve stumbling, cracking the wood of the bed frame as he falls into it. _Jesus Christ_But Steve still has his arm, and he yanks Bucky right with him, lifts and slams him over in the air and onto the mattress. Bucky knees him in the groin and he yelps, so Steve jabs him in the side to get the upper hand, and then Bucky throws out about seven more dirty tricks.

“You asshole” Steve snaps out halfway through the third when Bucky goes to _bite _him, and pinches him hard on the inside of his elbow, and _boy does Bucky react when he does that. _Something furious and something scared flashes bright in the brown of his eyes, and he headbutts Steve right in the nose.

“Mother” He half-swears, flinching back, and rolls Bucky over him and onto the floor with a thud, and cracks him in the back of the head with the complimentary bible.

They’re suddenly wrestling on the floor like children; but in such a more violent way than he remembers. Steve gets Bucky four times properly, Bucky gets him twice; hard enough that Steve can feel the bruising already blooming on his side.

"Let me go!" Bucky yells.

"Just calm"

Steve's not entirely sure what Bucky does, or what the hell kind of move this is, but suddenly he's gotten both his wrists together and his swinging them at Steve's face in a slam. He jerks his head back sharply to avoid it, but has to loosen his grip to do so._ Shit,_ he swears inwardly as soon as he does, loosing the upperhand. _He should have taken the hit_. Bucky scrambles up and tries to run; Steve trips him as soon as he’s on his feet and then is right where he needs to be when Bucky manages to get his feet under him again.

He grabs both of Bucky’s wrists; can feel his pulse points pounding in each palm; and forces him back in a charge into the corner; trapping him. Bucky wrestles one arm free and Steve ducks sharply as Bucky snaps it out lighting fast, hand curled in a fist. It misses his head but catches his ear, but _damn_ does Steve still feel it. He does a twist they learnt in Scotland, trying to duck under Steve's arm. He blocks him, righting his grip on Bucky, and Bucky nearly gets himself free with a faux slight by going for the other side. Steve blocks him again has to keep blocking him. He takes several painful hits to the chest, then to shins; and very nearly feels something _snap_. **_OW_**. Now he's struggling to get his wrists out of Steve's grip. He goes for another punch and Steve grabs the looser wrist again, slams it back into the wall; braces his forearm against it and twists Bucky’s fingers until he cries out. He makes his move quickly, kicking his toes into Bucky's shins; only enough to distract him so Steve can force his full weight down. Steve slams him again and again into the plaster wall until it cracks and practically crumbles against their weight.

“For_Ferme ta gueule!_” He hears someone shout through the wall behind him. 

Bucky doesn’t go pliant, still tense and rock hard, but he does stop fighting. Steve realizes suddenly how close they are, especially how and where he’s put his elbows; face to face. Steve’s looking down, leaning his weight into him and on one leg, his other smarting badly, but Bucky’s looking at the floor; hissing in breaths through his nose. Steve does the same for close to a minute.

He plays the other route. "If you won’t talk, then fine. One or the other.” He says, voice quieter. Bucky keeps panting into the space between them. “Switching between both isn’t helping. It’s got to be one…and if you won’t talk…then…”

He matches Bucky’s breathing between them.

“Then Leave it in the past," Steve pleads, voice slightly softer, but still almost an order. "It's over and done."

Bucky’s head snaps up so fast his head cracks back into the plaster and he’s glaring with almost hatred for the first time. His eyes glimmer in the lamp light. It’s the most emotion Steve’s seen from him in months, and it kills him to see it almost as much as it pleases him, but he’d also thought they were maybe done, or at least close to a conclusion. Steve seems to have set him off again, but alright, he’s always been adaptable.

Bucky’s mouth curls into a snarl; and _oh yes has Steve done it now somehow._

He shoves Steve off with force, and he stumbles back but keeps his feet._ Scream it out, Buck_, he thinks, ready for it, _whatever you have to_

"Not for me!" Bucky yells, chest heaving as if he can’t catch his breath, and Steve blinks sharply, expecting it but not quite expecting_ that_. Bucky shoves him back with each break in punctuation. "It's _never_ been over. It's never been _done_. You don't get to decide when I leave it behind!"

He makes himself listen to Bucky’s words; the ‘it’s never been over.’ He thinks, _okay, so he feels that way. He still feels trapped by it. If I just make him talk it out then_

“And Yes!” Bucky cries out, tears suddenly streaming down his face. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do! You’re supposed to just stand there, but you’re _supposed stand there with me._ You’re not supposed to be against me, Steve!”

Steve’s heart drops about a stone in his chest. “Buck, I’m not against”

“Yes you are!” He yells, now a near-scream again. “Every time you ask me, and try and talk to mepushing and pushing and_ fucking pushing_ when I tell youI’ve told you so many times. You’re not listening to me! The stuff I’m doing, like, like sleeping separate from the pile ofof everyone, and taking moments, or_ trying to_ \- to get my head on straight without someone checking I’m that not, Christ, cracking up all the damn time - that’s me looking after me. You get that? I’m doing bits where I can in the shit-storm that we’re in to protect _me_, and it’s working. It’s working sometimes. But you still....it’s not good enough.” Bucky laughs brokenly, “There’s something wrong with it. No matter what I do there’s something wrong with it. And-and-and, good day or bad day youyou bring it up. All the damn time, or youyou’re thinking about it. I can see you thinking about it, about what yourwhat your next _move_ is gonna’ be to get me to talk. You _wreck _my good days when you do, _you wreck them_, Steve, do you get that? And you, and you you look at me like I’m sick and wrongI know I’m sick and wrong! I know I am! But _you’re_ not supposed to look at me like that. You’re supposed to be the one person who doesn’t. I don’t have anyone else who can and you can’t…_.you can’t even do that_…”

“Bucky wait”

This has gone so suddenly startlingly wrong; has suddenly become about Steve. This is not how this was supposed to go, this was supposed to be about Bucky talking out the trauma, not about _him_, for Christ Sake.

“So,_ I’m sorry_,” the way it comes out is furious and sarcastic, “if the way I’m dealing with being _tortured_ isn’t going _fucking fast enough for you_.”

Steve tries to come near; and Bucky throws an unplugged lamp at his head - the shade glances off his jaw and he has to close his eyes sharply as the ceramic base shatters against his shoulder. Bucky shoves him in his distraction, then throws a whiskey glass off the credenza at the wall, stopping just at the last moment so it’s not at Steve this time round.

He hits the ground hard, his tailbone catching in a way that Steve can’t bring himself to feel, eyes back open and staring in horror as his friend breaks apart in front of him.

“Because I’m fed up, I’m _fed up_ of you throwing stuff at me like you wanna see what sticks - what’s it gonna take for me to break and spill the beans.” Bucky snaps, “What _happened to me_ is not some bit of-of-of gossip for you to trick out of me!”

“No! That’s not” Steve, with his hands lifted out, sat on floor, shakes his head frantically. “That’s never what I meant to”

“Not what you meant to? Not what you meant to what, Steve? Your stupid plan of pissing me off, what was it meant to do, except make me prove to you how many pieces I’m in? Well it’s worked. So congratulations! I‘m broken Steve, are you happy now? Have you got what you wanted?”

This…this wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t what he wanted at all.

“I’ve told you I don’t want to talk;_ I’ve told you that’s what I need. Again and again and again._ But you don’t even want to try, because it’s not _your way;_ and everything has to be _Steve Rodgers fucking way_. For once in your _god-forsaken shitting fucking _life will you just _shut up and let me feel what I need to feel!_ And let me do it in my way, not yours! When I need you - I’ll need you - but not before, do you hear me? Not before,” he repeats, “this is on my terms! I get to choose when and if I come to you, I don’t have a lot of choices but I have that._ I choose, not you_.”

He’s purely panting now, and looks at Steve dead in the eyes, exhausted. He hisses, “I’d do it for you,” energy gone, “why won’t you do it for me?”

He sags back against the bed, slumping; a marionette with his strings cut. His eyes squeeze shut; he gasps unevenly. By the time Steve’s dropped to his knees in front of him, he’s started hiccupping helplessly.

Steve reaches out a shaking hand for him, then pulls it back to his own lap. He leans down and presses his forehead into Bucky’s knees instead, breathing out between the gap in his thighs, like he’s praying at a pew; Bucky his priest. Part of the Milky Way glimmers above them through the window, and half of Bucky's face is cast into shadow in the light of the room. The whole of Steve's is shadowed by Bucky's figure.

“Okay,” he says quietly, apologetically; contrite. _You’re a horrible friend Steve Rodgers. _“Okay. I can do that for you, if you need.”

He ventures a hand out, searching until it finds Bucky’s right. He squeezes. The clasp is uneasy at first, and nothing about it changes. Bucky doesn’t return it, just sits and lets Steve manoeuvre his hand round like a puppet. “I was trying to help but, but you’re right, I was trying to do that my way. Trying to get you angry - I didn’t mean any of what Iit was a move,” he hates himself for having to admit it, but Bucky called it, and Bucky called it _right._ “Just like you said, a move toI didn’t mean, the bit about your ma and pa, thator, or any of it. I”_ Fuck._ Now_ his_ words won’t come at a time where he startlingly needs them to. He makes himself take a breath, squeezing his eyes into Bucky’s knees until his eyebrows nearly hurt from the pressure.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you. _I should have listened to you_.” He says more firmly, looking up, and Bucky doesn’t look at him back but does widen his legs a little.

Steve shuffles closer between them, and catches the bend of Bucky’s neck where it meets the skull. “Hey.” he calls, tilting his friend’s chin to make sure he’s listening but also to make sure he sees the seriousness in Steve’s eyes when he repeats: “I’m sorry, Buck. I’m so sorry, I mean it with everything I’ve got, okay? And you’re not sick, or wrong or _anything_ \- you’re… you’re my favourite guy in the world - and I’m so sorry if I made you think I felt any differently.

“I haven’t--” Steve continues on from Bucky’s silence, realizing it really is his turn now. “I haven’t been as good to you as I should.”

_I should have sent you home,_ he thinks all over again, _I should have got you a honourable discharge months ago. I shouldn’t have been selfish in wanting to keep you close, I should have thought about you. God, I’m so sorry._

“What can I do? Right now, is there anything I can get you? Anything at all.”

He doesn’t answer for a good long while. Eventually:

“Can you stop trying to get me drunk?” Bucky throws out, eyes on the floor, dead and flat in a way that is a little funny.

Steve doesn’t to laugh because none of this is funny. “I can do that. Anything else?”

“I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

Steve presses his lips together. Stops himself. Nods. “Sure thing pal.” He says, backing off from in-between his legs so Bucky can shovel himself backwards until he’s against the pillows and can kick at the covers with his feet until he’s under them. “I’ll just grab you a glass of water for the morning.”

He wanders quietly down the hallway to the communal bathroom, realises he's limping, and runs the dusty glass from the side table under the water a few times before he fills it. He looks at himself in the mirror, and doesn't like what looks back. He splashes the water in the glass over his face; it's supposed to be a flash of cold to awaken him out of the terrible decision he made to push this tonight. To have pushed it so many times without realising he was pushing it. To awaken him from the blindness of his own behaviour. 

He refills the water glass.

When he returns to the room Bucky’s fully under the covers, still clothed, turned on his side with the lights and lamp still on. Steve winces as he glimpses the mess; the scuffed carpet, torn blankets, lopsided lamp-shade and worse of all - the human-sized dent in the corner wall; spiderweb cracks coming off it. They will definitely have to pay for the damage. He sets the water on the table within reach by Bucky’s face, picking up the bible he thwacked Bucky in the head with from the floor; and takes it to the other-side of the room.

He heads to the door, and slows then stalls, hand on the doorjam. He ventures, expecting the negative. “Is it okay if I stay?”

He looks at Bucky over his shoulder after the soft words have left his lips, and Bucky’s watching his back. He nods minutely, looking at Steve’s shoulder.

Steve feels something unravel in his chest at how good Bucky always is with him. He switches off the main overhead lamp, kicks off his shoes next to Bucky’s, and wanders his way to the other-side of the bed in the low flickering lamp light.

They’ve shared beds since they were young; both for nights spent at each other’s houses, and then later, in their apartment in the winter months, with no heat and Steve’s immune system weak and poised to attack. It feels a little like the same, but now they’re doing it in a double bed, and that despite both their bulky sizes, the space between them feels like a lake.

He slides in, lying on his back; staring at the ceiling. Closes his eyes. He opens them to look at the clock on the wall to see it’s been nearly twenty five minutes. He turns his head to look at the back of Bucky’s hair, covers pulled up to his neck; heartbeat slow and steady but breathing not quite there yet.

“Do you remember when you said - I think we were about twenty-two or just before; it was close to your birthday,” he remembers quietly, “about how I always get so close to having a good thing, and then I push it away?”

Bucky breathes in deeply, he can hear it just as he can see his shoulders rise and fall. “I was pissed at you for throwing away a chance with Katerina.” He answers, just as quiet; juxtaposing their screaming earlier. His voice cracks a little from the wear.

Katerina was one of the girls in his community life-drawing class with Bertie, who joined late. By that time their little posse was well into it’s prime; he, Bertie, Bucky, Isabelle and Courtney. Katerina, and you said her name fast and with the rolling fleck or not at all, navigated her way in later, pretty and shy and very Spanish; still learning English. Compared to the rest of them; or compared to Bertie, Courtney and Bucky, who given a drink were disgustingly dirty; she was very conservative, but she used to giggle at Steve’s jokes and laugh at his caricatures of Bucky, sweaty from his work at the docks when he posed for them all.

Bucky had also _very conveniently _dragged the others away more than once under barely conceived excuses so Steve and Katerina were left alone together after he’d noticed the giggles. He had seemed close to giving up on Steve entirely when Steve got so nervous he blew it and then Katrina stopped talking to him and then stopped coming to their party nights altogether.

“You used to do it a lot.” Bucky adds, head sinking further into the pillow, “What’s your point?”

“My point,” Steve sighs, staring at his head. “Is I don’t push _you _away.”

“I’m not a good thing.” Bucky mumbles.

Steve knew that was coming this time, even if he was wrong in what he thought was coming earlier. “You’re the best thing.” He contradicts.

There’s a long put-out sigh that carries over: “Steve”

“No.” Steve interrupts, determined.

He scoots closer and threads his hand over Bucky’s ribs to link their hands. He twists their fingers together until they’re tight and sincere, and their pulse points beat flush; the undersides of their wrists pushed together. He thinks about the veins there; how every pulsing line leads to Bucky’s heart like a tapestry of roads; and how after fourteen years even if Steve hasn’t touched every inch of him before; he feels like he’s mapped every single one. _He’s alive_, Steve reminds himself,_ it’s still beating. That’s what matters. They can get through anything else._

“You are. You’re the best thing in all of France and Italy and Europe. In this war and back home, you always have been to me. You’re loyal and brave, and still looking out for me even though I’m twice your size and a little indestructible now...I don’t know what I ever would have done without you...”

Bucky says nothing this time, no arguments, no agreement, no disputation. He just lies there, turned away from Steve and facing the spiderweb cracked corner. His breath hitches unevenly.

“You’re the best thing.” Steve repeats as tender as he can make it, carefully aware Bucky’s on the edge of tears again. He hates seeing Bucky cry; hates hearing it more. “And I’m so proud of you for everything. I want you to remember that.”

Bucky breathes out shakily another time, and curls a little more into himself, reclaiming his hand; tucking it under his chin and away from Steve. “I’m going to sleep now Steve.”

“Okay.” He replies softly, closing his own eyes. He pulls his hand back, and it’s quivering. _What has he done?_ “Goodnight.”

. . .

There’s about three books currently working the circle of the commandos, passed among each other in their downtime. Steve’s read _Narcissus and Goldman_, and is due to have _Very Good Jeeves_ next. He’s currently on _A Brave New World_, which used to be one of Bertie’s favourites. Halfway through the book he came across a quote, only a few days ago - and it floors him now as it did then with an uncomfortable feeling.

The extract says, “One of the principal functions of a friend is to suffer the punishments that we should like, but are unable to, inflict upon our enemies.”

It’s meant in a milder and symbolic form but - the quote in it’s rawest form sticks, caught up in himself like a spiders-web: _Is that what Bucky is now for Steve?_

He’s suffered worse than the punishments Steve wishes to inflict on his enemies, and he can’t help but think, _is this God’s Plan?_ What if it wasn’t himself he was offering as a sacrifice when he put himself in that machine, what if he sacrificed his very best friend in all the world for a chance to fight for his country instead?

It’s an awful awful thought, and Steve is angry; angry at the Almighty if it’s true for the first time in his life; angry at the stupid book for putting it in his head; angry at the Nazis, America, Hydra, war; at the _world._ Bucky’s always thought God ruled by fear, for as long as he can remember, but Steve had always told him, no, he was wrong; God didn’t rule over everyone; and if he did; then it would be by love - not fear. God is merciful. But now…he doesn’t feel like praying for enlightenment - he feels like cursing at the sky instead until God rights the whole universe into something that is_ right_ \- not filled with hate, and blood and death.

If the Almighty is as All-powerful as the Bible claims Him to be then He’s more powerful than the Devil, the demons and the evils of the world; whether Cain brought it into being or not - so why doesn’t he stop this?_ If we really are His children then why won’t He protect us, why didn’t He protect Bucky?_ Why did He allow the universe to take from James Buchanan Barnes in order to give to Steven Grant Rodgers? It shouldn’t have gone that way.

_Is it worth it, God?_ He wants to scream, _Because it’s not worth it to me, and it never will be. Please, please give him back._

_._

* * *

** _NEXT TIME ON MAN THE GUNS:_ **

_“You still want to talk, don’t you?”_

_“I...” Steve can’t deny that, but this isn’t about him anymore. “…I mainly just want to make sure you’re okay.”_

_“I’m not.” Bucky replies abruptly, still not meeting his eyes or any part of him for that matter. His eyes are fixed firmly on the wool bulbs of the carpet to the right of Steve’s chair. “But you know that already.”_

_I do. “That’s…that’s not anything you need to feel bad about. Not being okay.” Steve replies after a stilled moment, “I wasn’t okay after ma’s death, and you never let feel bad about..about feeling it. I tried to do the same after your pop’ died; but everything all started happening so fast after that we never really….what I mean to say is….I’m really, and I mean, really fucking sorry if I made you feel bad about not being okay. I think after everything - you, more than anyone are allowed to not be…” His voice trails off in failure, and he rubs his eyes with one hand. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, here.”_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for the big explosion, anyone? It's about damn time after 20 chapters, wouldn't you say? I would. 
> 
> REFERENCES:
> 
> GINGER-SNAP: 1930s-1940s slang for a hot-headed person.  
RATTLECAP: 1930s-1940s slang for an unsteady volatile person  
GOLLUMPUS: 1930s-1940s slang for a large clumsy fellow.  
NINCOMPOOP: 1930s-1940s slang for a fool.  
UNLICKED CUB:1930s-1940s slang for a loutish youth who has never been taught manners; from the tradition that a bear’s cub, when brought into the world, has no shape or symmetry until its mother licks it into form with her tongue; ill-trained, uncouth, and rude.
> 
> THE SHADOW: One of the most popular radio shows in history. The show went on the air in August of 1930. Originally the narrator of the series of macabre tales, the eerie voice known as The Shadow became so popular to listeners that "Detective Story" was soon renamed "The Shadow," and the narrator became the star of the old-time mystery radio series, which ran until 1954. LINK: https://www.oldradioworld.com/shows/The_Shadow.php
> 
> THE RADIO IN THE 1930S: Known as the Golden Age of Radio. During the Depression every family was known to have one, and many evenings were spent sat around it listening to the shows, comedies, music and news as the main, and only form of affordable entertainment. All the names mentioned are real shows at the time.
> 
> BBC CODES: NAPOLEON’S HAT IS IN THE RING = translation = Plan Vert for the French Resistance and SOE Agents, ordering them to sabotage railways systems. 
> 
> JOHN IS GROWING A LONG MOUSTACHE - translation = Plan Violet for the French Resistance and SOE Agents, ordering them to destroy phone lines.  
BBC RADIO: Every broadcast opened with a series of random sentences and phrases, often making little to no sense; with codes littered between them for the Resistances of every country. It was incredibly specific - for example, they also worked through songs - so if the radio played the wrong record at a certain time - the Polish Resistance could blow up the wrong bridge. This happened once by accident.  
The number of codes increased in the lead up to D-DAY, most days having none; though the German’s didn’t know that. It was illegal to own or be caught listening to the BBC, and thousands of men and women in the Resistance listened every night waiting for their specific codes to be broadcast. There’s a great example of this in the film THE LONGEST DAY - the clip is on YouTube.
> 
> FUN FACT: The Main titles of BBC Radio Evening always began with the first notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. These notes come to symbolize the Allied Effort. Churchill’s ‘V for Victory’ could translate in many ways - in other languages and morse code. The letter V in morse code is “dot dot dot dash” - the opening of Beethhoven’s Fifth? Take a guess. “Dun dun dun Dumm.”


	36. PART 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, steeling himself, says: “I just mean. I’m. I haven’t been.” His foot starts tapping an erratic beat against the carpet, his hands start fidgeting; his knuckles crack. He puts the cup down. “I--it’s, its. Ever since---” He growls, frustrated at himself. “I---fuck.”
> 
> “Take your time,” Steve says gently, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together again. You’re good, bud. You’re good. Take your time.
> 
> “I just---” He scrubs a hand through his hair; a old habit he’s had as long as Steve’s known him. The foot slows, and picks up again; but it’s slower, more controlled. “It’s hard to--to talk sometimes. The words just--”
> 
> He falters, again; and Steve can see they’re not going to come. “It’s okay.” Steve repeats.
> 
> Bucky takes a big long breath. He releases it just as long, lips shivering so it comes out shaky. “I didn’t…I didn’t talk to anyone for… for so long. In-in, in there. They, they kept me alone, after…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is a conversation about suicidal thoughts and inferences to such ahead. If this is a trigger for you be warned, and please look after yourself.  
The entire extract follows from Steve's dialogue of "Screw me.” Steve scoffs easily, "I’m not exactly someone you should be modelling yourself after..." down several bits of dialogue and paragraphs of introspection; to the memory beginning with 'Then Bucky had banged the door open, flopped down dramatically on Steve’s legs over the covers; tossed his schoolbag over Steve’s cramping stomach; and complained loudly for over an hour about the new English teacher..." This section switches to italics as an identifier for those of you that would still like to read the chapter but want to skip that bit. It's halfway through the chapter, and halfway through the third 'setting' within the chapter. :)
> 
> There is also one slur used in a copied transcript of an Axis Sally broadcast. Of course this is not a reflection of the authors feelings or of the characters. From how quick it's shut down I hope that makes it clear. X

* * *

_LAST TIME ON MAN THE GUNS:_

_“So, I’m sorry,” the way it comes out is furious and sarcastic, “if the way I’m dealing with being tortured isn’t going fucking fast enough for you.”_

_Steve tries to come near; and Bucky throws an unplugged lamp at his head - the shade glances off his jaw and he has to close his eyes sharply as the ceramic base shatters against his shoulder. Bucky shoves him in his distraction, then throws a whiskey glass off the credenza at the wall, stopping just at the last moment so it’s not at Steve this time round._

_He hits the ground hard, his tailbone catching in a way that Steve can’t bring himself to feel, eyes back open and staring in horror as his friend breaks apart in front of him._

_“Because I’m fed up, I’m fed up of you throwing stuff at me like you wanna see what sticks - what’s it gonna take for me to break and spill the beans.” Bucky snaps, “What happened to me is not some bit of-of-of gossip for you to trick out of me!”_

_“No! That’s not” Steve, with his hands lifted out, sat on floor, shakes his head frantically. “That’s never what I meant to”_

_“Not what you meant to? Not what you meant to what, Steve? Your stupid plan of pissing me off, what was it meant to do, except make me prove to you how many pieces I’m in? Well it’s worked. So congratulations! I‘m broken Steve, are you happy now? Have you got what you wanted?”_

_ This…this wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t what he wanted at all._

* * *

STEVE

When he wakes, he wakes first.

The curtains disguise it well but it’s just gone morning twilight; the sun dipped just at the horizon; a diffused crepuscular through the fabric. Bucky’s breathing is deep and for once; relaxed, his heart thumping a nice slow _lub dub_ as percussion to the quiet hotel room. Steve rolls over silently, taking care not to dip the mattress to see the lines of stress and toil have smoothed and virtually disappeared from his face, even if the remnants of old tears still caught in them remain. The body he’s looking at is one entirely at peace, rejuvenating the mind and muscles before the onslaught of the next day, and Steve knows full well, it will be an onslaught.

“Bucky?” He murmurs, just to see.

While a light sleeper nowadays, Bucky doesn’t wake; doesn’t even twitch. Steve’s innately grateful, because he was awake, aware, and ready nearly all of last night; but no nightmares came. It seems as though the fight and the upset quite literally exhausted his friend to sleep. It reminds him of home of their apartment; when he’d go put on a pot of coffee and Bucky in the other bed would sleep on oblivious, or pretend to regardless of whether Steve woke him nicely or by poking him incessantly in the shoulders. He used to hate mornings. Steve; after he moved in realized he’d somehow _unknowingly_ adopted the responsibility of having to bodily drag Bucky out of bed so he actually made it to work from Mrs. Barnes; a responsibility he was only successful at about eighty-five percent of the time. Either way Bucky still ended up running out the door with half an arm in his shirt and one shoe on, swearing up a storm, on most days.

Steve watches him for a while. Then turns back over and slides off the mattress to assess the damage as best he can. He tidies up their coats, rights a knocked over lamp, (collects the shards of another), tries his best to unscuff the carpet; then tidies up Bucky’s things; placing them in a neat side by side order he hopes Bucky will appreciate when he wakes. There’s not much to be done for the cracks the walls, and he can hardly hoover up all the plaster dust, but it’s something to do. It’s something to distract himself with.

_ If you’re moving - you’re not thinking_; an old motto he’s never quite all-together grown out of.

He finishes on Bucky’s watch, the one his ma sent him in the post for his birthday, running his fingers over it to make sure it wasn’t damaged when his friend slammed it on the tray out of aggravation. It’s nice. Second-hand, it looks like, but nice. Mrs Barnes has always had good taste, especially for things both sturdy and dependable, and if she couldn’t buy things, she’d always make them. Her education in a lot of ways was with her hands, not her head, and as far as Steve has always been able to tell she’s never minded it that way. Or, she never minded it until she trusted all the Barnes’ finances to her husband before the crash, as most wives do, and he he was one bad investment away from putting them all on the streets. Then she decided she should learn to read more than just music notes, and write for good measure so she could strangle him before he did it again.

Bucky’s wardrobe barely consisted of a single piece of bought clothing aside from boots until he was twelve, Steve happens to know, and Becca’s dollhouse wasn’t bought either. Mr Barnes, much as he liked to pretend he was a man of the world, wouldn’t know chisel from a mortiser most like, so he certainly hadn’t built it. He might have helped paint it, under pain of instruction, but it was Bucky’s ma who grew up on the land, tinkering with trades and fixing tit for tat.

The pace of Bucky’s breath changes, and Steve stops, waiting; but his friend just shifts; keeps sleeping. He moves to the other side of the room. Then the other, then peaks through the curtains as the light grows, then at the clock. A half hour passes. He tidies the room again. Then, then nothing.

There’s nothing else he can do anymore but sit, wait, and think about everything that happened last night.

He remembers:

_It's __never__ been over. It's never been __done__. You don't get to decide when I leave it behind!_to _Just because it doesn’t look like it to you doesn’t mean I’m not dealing with it._

The I_’ve told you that’s what I need. Again and again and again._ _But you don’t even want to try, because it’s not your way; and everything has to be Steve Rodgers’ fucking way. For once in your god-forsaken shitting fucking life will you just shut up and let me feel what I need to feel! _

You’re _supposed stand there with me!_

_I will Buck,_ he swears, _I will. Now that I know, I’m sorry and I will. I swear it on ma’s grave, I’m standing right beside you._

Steve allows himself to slump against the credenza, white-knuckling where he digs his fingers into the polished wood. It creaks ominously beneath his touch and he loosens his grip, spinning about to face his friend.

The l_ub dub_ of his heart has changed, and when he looks open eyes meet him.

“Good morning.” He greets quietly.

“M...morning.”

Laying between them is a tense, awkward silence... a kind they’ve never had between them before. For something to say, Steve settles on: “You feeling tender at all today?”

It’s a fair, and also familiar question after their nights on the town. Buck has always been known to get terrible hangovers; headaches and unending dry mouth no matter how often he brushes his teeth.

“No, not at all.” Bucky answers after a moment, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Steve steps closer. “You cleaned.”

“Yeah.” Steve replies, sitting on the bed.

“You’ve got a bruise.” His friend then adds, latent.

“Hm?”

Bucky motions to the side of his face, and Steve touches his own; feeling the ache as his fingers connect. “Oh. Yeah. You er…you got me pretty good.”

Bucky eyes glance away, and stop. His hand scrunches and runs it’s way through his hair. “I shouldn’t have been able to do that. You’re skin is”

“Can do anything when you’re angry enough, you know that. I deserved it.”

“But I shouldn’t…” Bucky’s voice trails off, looking further down and further pained with convoluted feelings.

“... I mighta’ got you pretty good around your ribs to knock you back.” Steve adds after an awkward moment. “Are they sore?”

Bucky doesn’t answer him outside of what Steve thinks is a shrug.

Neither of them say anything while Steve settles and Bucky lies there, but Steve can see him fiddling with his fingers under the sheets. The last time this happened was after Bucky’s thoughtless comment about Steve’s ma mere months after she was gone. This time it’s Steve’s thoughtless comments that have driven them here.

“Buck?” Steve isn’t sure if now’s the time to broach this topic, but he’s unlikely to get the chance to raise this in private after real sunrise, as he fully expects they will be cursed with frequent visitors throughout the day; likely loudly complaining about their raging headaches and unsettled stomachs.

“Hmm?”

“You wanna talk about what happened before we passed out? Maybe?”

In an abrupt move, Bucky rolls onto his left side, pulling the blanket back up over his head.

“Buck” Steve tries, aware of how faint his voice sounds. He feels like he’s been hit with a live grenade, everything that makes him who he is scattered to the winds.

“No,” comes the quick reply. It’s muffled by the covers and hollow with pain. “Don’t. I need… Can you go? Gimme some time.”

_He promised. He can do this._

Feeling like he’s moving through a soupy fog Steve slides right back off the bed and pulls his coat and boots on automatically. Without saying a word he leaves the room and pauses in the corridor. He shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it.

Going down to the foyer where the lone, tired front of house sits, he checks the time they have to leave, and promptly books another night; handing over crumbled British pounds he finds in his pocket.

The hotel’s kitchen hasn’t quite opened for breakfast yet, it still being so early, but they offer to wrangle him up a cup of coffee after he stands there, bereft and unsure what to do next. At least someone is taking pity on him. He waves the gentleman off, feeling the itching need to get out of this building, just for a little while - so makes his way past the doorman instead. He’s not in the mood to risk bumping into any other of howlers who are also early risers; unhappy in having to explain the stress that likely lines his face like no tomorrow. They’ll be able to tell he didn’t sleep; his friends, _and they are his friends_, know him too well.

Down Clancey Street there’s a cafe Steve knows that opens especially early, supplying those on deliveries and those who never went to bed in the first place. The coffee is terrible; rationed and bitter and dark - but the tea isn’t bad and Peggy has been slowly, teabag by teabag, trying to convert him. She’s succeeding, albeit more slowly than she did with Bucky.

Bucky.

_Stop. Don’t think about it. Get a cup of tea - that’s your first step._

The bell clings softly as the door opens and a middle-aged woman he hasn’t yet seen comes from the back, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Good mornin’ to you, darling.” She says, and it’s a startlingly familiar twang.

“Good morning.” Steve manages, “are you, you’re Irish?”

“I am. Hail from wee Londonderry I do.”

Steve huffs a soft laugh, “my mother was from Monaghan. She never lost her accent either Icould I get a tea, please?

“Course’ dal. Wee or tall?”

“Tall please”

“To go or to stay?”

“Um…” Steve stalls, and the lady smiles at him, tells him there’s seating outside; and how it’s a nice morning. She makes him his tea, and they talk briefly about the weather; and then she slides a bare slice of toast over to him. “Oh, I didn’t”

“You seemed like you could use it.” She says, “’fraid I don’t have any butter; we haven’t had our delivery through yet.”

“That’s…that’s alright. This is great. Thank you.” He means it.

“Rough night?” She asks as she pours the milk.

He hands over his coins. “Didn’t start out that waybut, yeah. Started a fight I shouldn’t have. Probably…probably going to be paying for it for a while.”

“Wife?”

Steve can’t help the almost helpless laugh that comes out. “Might as well be.”

He takes a seat at the small circular table that once would have fit him at a perfect height, with a chair that likewise would be three inches wider than his hips; but now fits snugly against thicker thighs. The underside of the table brushes his knees. He twists the chair round so he’s facing the street, setting down his cup, saucer and adding a single sugar for something to do with his hands. The white tablecloth has a baby blue inner border, and is inlaid with colourful fruits; apples, bananas, grapes, a melon and some cherries. Of the three other tables situated outside - none match - but Steve finds that rather suits the place.

Through the door the lovely lady from Londonderry tunes the radio she’s had playing lowly onto another frequency - and Steve hears the cadence of Frank Bauer - _Radio-Londres_ then.

He’s giving Bucky some time - he can do that - but what does he do after that time? What the hell does he do after he drinks his damn tea? What can he possibly say to make any of this better?

Maybe - maybe that’s the point, and he can’t make it better.

This isn’t something he can fix - just like Steve’s temperamental health was never something Bucky or his ma could fix - no matter how many times they tried to save up to go away for the summer for some clean country air. Their trip to the Hamptons with Bertie and the girls was the clearest Steve’s lungs had ever felt. Bucky swore that they would go back every year, just as he did when he made his family hawk Steve across the country to Indiana for their second to last holiday there. They were twelve. Bucky had told him he was there as defence to stop his nana squishing his cheeks up like he was toddler, and if Steve didn’t physically throw himself in-between them then he was no friend at all. His father from the front of the car had told him to_ ‘can it’_ while ordering Steve to_ ‘let it happen, it’s very funny and he deserves it. This is what you get for egging your teacher’s house, boy.’_

After the Hamptons Steve would say:_ ‘With what money?’ _

_And Bucky would say, ‘we don’t need no money - we’ll live off the land, chill in a tent and go barmy running through _ _poison_ _ivy...make nettle soup! Ma taught me how to make it - I’m sure she could give us more tricks of the trade if I can stomach going over there. It’d be swell.’_

_‘As someone who coats his entire skull in hair mouse, you somehow don’t seem like the kinda’ guy who’d last out on the land.’ Steve had teased with a smirk._

_‘I’ve been to the country more than you have.’ Bucky’d replied, and he’d had a point there._

Then the war had come - and they’d never made it back. Bucky had never been able to fix Steve the way he wished to, but eventually Steve found a miraculous way of doing it himself. The thought of last night; of that stupid quote in that stupid favourite book of Bertie’s, rears up.

It’s happened, it’s done….he can’t travel back in time to change it - and he can’t fix it in the present - so what can he do?

He thinks about the moment, the very first moment Bucky had sat him down, and said he was all in; double or nothing.

_Steve’s sat at the table having finally _ _rescued_ _himself_ _ out of bed; feeling fuzzed out with achy muscles and swollen feet; wrapped in a blanket. He’s going through their paper bills in one hand while he thumbs and tries to the ignore the paper he has due about the use of C__hiaroscuro_ _in Caravaggio’s work on his other side._

_Bucky approaches with a tray, a tapperty-creak as he hops up the two small stairs _ _separating_ _ their kitchen from their parlour. Steve looks up in surprise._

_“Alright, here we go. Sarah Rodgers’ famous ‘cure-all’ kitchen sink stew.” He plops their wooden tray with a ta-da _ _purposefully_ _ over the grey bills, piled with a bowl of stew, glass of water, bread, spoon and a new neat napkin. Steve gives him a side-look at that - who are you, Mary Poppins?_

_“Shut up.” Bucky says to Steve’s silent judgement. “There we go. Enough pepper in there to burn your lips off, just like your ma used to make.”_

_“I didn’t ask for He shakes his head, smell making his stomach churn. Steve’s face twists briefly as he pushes it off the papers, and picks one pile up; it has overdue written into the first sentence. He wonders if the same word was stamped on the envelope, and if Bucky has hidden it from him - the overprotective bastard. “I haven’t seen this, when did it get here? How long ago?”_

_It’s for their train card accounts. Their midnight rides to Manhattan, Harlem, Brooklyn and back have probably mashed the bill right up - not counting the several trips Steve made with college to the Massachusetts Art museums in the last month. _

_And, though he’s on a new scholarship; his textbooks and materials still cost a good dime and a dollar. Bucky also bought all those suits for his clerk interviews, thinking he could take them back later. It’s certainly taught him to read the labels properly - because guess what, he can’t. Steve’s not surprised this ones slipped them by, and the new months lot will be mailed out soon. They’ve been living together for four months - and financial _ _independence_ _ is a lot _ _scarier_ _ than they’d thought it would be. _

_Bucky slaps his hand down and takes it off him. “Would you relax, I’ve got it covered.”_

_“With what money?”_

_“With money that __I_ **_**earn.** _ ** _” _

_Steve gives him a look, knowing full well as Bucky does that despite what he earns they are still low. Their savings are next to nothing with Steve’s months trying to go it alone draining him beyond belief and with Bucky forcing Steve to accept a friendly ‘loan’ (which Steve in all _ _likelihood_ _ will never have to pay back) to pay his late ma’s medical expenses with all the savings he ever made at the _ _restaurant_ _ by the pier. Without it they have nothing to fall back on, and admittedly, they may have been a bit overzealous with their _ _furniture_ _ buying - a point of contention in that Bucky wanted _ ** _ **nice ** _ ** _stuff._

_ ‘I’ll take anything that doesn’t have roaches or mites in as nice.’ Steve had said, and Bucky had returned with that _ ** _ **that** _**_was exactly why _**_**he** _**_was in charge of their interior design, and not Steve. They’re back to living pay-check to pay-check until they can boost their accounts again._

_“Besides,” Bucky adds, “pop said he’d help out if we’re a bit short.”_

_“I am not taking any more money from your father, Buck.” Steve warns him outright, deadly serious. _

_Bucky rolls his eyes, “Yes, I know - you’ve got pride. _ _It_ _’s a shame for you that I don’t.”_

_“I mean it.” Steve repeats, straight as a shot. He’s fiercely _ _vehement_ _about this. “He’s given us way too much already. More than he can _ _probably_ _afford to give out.”_

_“It’s fine.”_

_“It’s not. I’m not having your folks spend any more on getting us set up.”_

_“They just want us to be comfortable.”_

_“We don’t need to be comfortable at their own expense. That’s not happening. Think about your sisters here. You want them”_

_“The rugrats are fine. More than fine. It’s hardly like they’re starving - I saw Jenna stuffing her face with candy not even two days ago. It was a sight, let me tell you. You know she can get seven Snicker bars into that gob of hers? Hell, I’m pretty sure I’m _ _traumatized_ _. Besides,” he adds, crossing his arms. “Ma keeps track of the books now, paranoid woman - you know what she’s like about the whole thing.”_

_“Can’t say I blame her.” Steve tacks on carefully._

_“Yeah, alright fine.” Bucky retorts only slightly stiffly, “I get why. Pa screwed up. We all know pa screwed up. It’s been years. She’s still paranoid.”_

_“Says you!” Steve can’t help it, a near blurted laugh._

_“Oh shut it.” Bucky retorts carelessly, releasing one arm to wave it. “You know why I’m like what I’m like.”_

_“Yeah, I know. But it’s for the same reason she’s like what she’s like. You could maybe cut her some slack every now and again.”_

_“I’ll cut her slack when she stops taking slices off other people’s cakes.”_

_“Bucky.” Steve states _ _flatly_ _._

_“I’m not supporting her left-handed honeymoons, Steve, I’m not. Not anymore.”_

_He correctly points out. “You never did support it.” _

_“I never stopped it though, did I? Why are you on her side all of a sudden?”_

_“I’ve never been on her side. I’m on your side.” Steve replies _ _faithfully_ _,“I’m always on your side - I’m just pointing out that you can’t make a fault on her for that as a knock on. Not when you’re the same.”_

_“Yes, alright mirror mirror - always on my ass - on the wall. Point made.” Bucky mocks, making Steve nearly smile despite the subject. “I ain’t having anything to do with it anymore is my point. It’s why I walked out. I’m saying If she had a problem with the totals she would have called him on it by now.”_

_“Mowl”_

_“Don’t Mowgli me.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “They’re a lot better off than you seem to get. All the reds gone, back to green as grass. It’s been years since we were as skint as you.”_

_“Technically as skint as _ ** _ **us** _ ** _, now.”_

_“Exactly why I ain’t ashamed of asking for help, Mushy Mushkinison.”_

_Steve groans as Bucky smushes his hair up, shaking his head to escape it; “oh get-off,” then rubbing at his eyes. He picks up his dismal essay he is _ _definitely_ _ going to need to rewrite. Out of the corner of his eye he see’s Bucky re-cross his arms and continue to stand there._

_“What?”_

_“I’m sorry, is the plate of stew I slaved over invisible?” He queries sarcastically, picking up the spoon. “Want me to do the whole airplane thing?” He flies it with a swirl at Steve’s face._

_Steve easily ignores him, taking it unseriously. He keeps trying to read through words that are a little blurry. His chest is tight with pain, and he can feel his pulse fluttering quickly. He can’t put it off forever. Work through, work through, work through._

_Bucky drops the spoon with a clang on the table. “Remind me, when was the last time you ate?”_

_Steve, still wrapped in his blanket lifts his hand in a guessing motion. “I don’”_

_“Days, Steve.” Bucky _ _interrupts_ _, holding up the number in fingers. “It’s been three days. The only reason you can’t see it on you is cause you’ve got no weight to actually loose.”_

_“I’m just a bit off my food right now,” he excuses, rubbing his face. “I’m making sure I’m drinking enough - but it’ll pass. I just need to work through - I’ve got a”_

_“You need to rest,” Bucky counters, “not get up and _ _gallivant_ _ halfway across the city to watch your teacher paint some fruit.”_

_“I have class.” Steve iterates, “you were the one who was so gung-ho on me going - what, now you want me to miss it?”_

_Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs. Out his pocket he pulls a - is that a _ _thermometer_ _? They don’t own one - not since Steve _ _smashed_ _ his mother’s and _ _half_ _ the medicine cabinet in a breakdown after the funeral when Bucky finally gave him a minute on his own._

_Steve can barely restrain laughing ruefully. He leans his head on one hand, grinning in spite of himself. “When did you get that?”_

_“When you started throwing off heatwaves.” Bucky states easily. Steve barely gets out anything before Bucky’s headed for his face with it. “Come here.”_

_Steve abruptly shoves his chair back, whipping the blanket off his shoulders as he stands. He’s not letting Bucky near him with that thing, even if he means well - he’s not an invalid. “Buck please” He stumbles, sways; has to catch the corner of the table to stay upright._

_“Oh for” The look Bucky gives him is very unimpressed._

_This proves nothing, Steve wants to lay on his face._

_This proves you’re a punk, Bucky seems to retort._

_“The muscle aches, the fever, the shaky legs. “ Bucky lists, “This is not good! What if we’re looking at the start of pneumonia here?”_

_“We’re not.”_

_“How would you know?”_

_“Because I’ve had it before,” Steve returns, “it’s not. It’s just my heart acting up the way it does sometimes.”_

_He’s been getting pain for days whenever it constricts too tightly; so he knew this was coming. It’s hardly the first time it’s happened over the years, but it’s something Bucky has never really _ _experienced_ _ with him on his own before. He knows Steve’s health is _ _temperamental_ _ and that he catches all manner of germs easily; and can probably list all the ailments he’s come down with over the years which have landed him in the hospital - but he doesn’t know the _ _extent_ _ of what those ailments have _ ** _ **left ** _ ** _him with. He doesn’t know the full _ _extent_ _ because Steve has never wanted to admit the full extent. The pains always make him _ _shaky__ and cold._

_“Enough reason to stay home then.” Bucky counters after a moment. The slight frown on his face hints that he doesn’t entirely understand what Steve means._

_“No, it’s”_

_“You’re not eating,” Bucky now claims, seemingly working himself onto a roll, “that’s not _ _exactly_ _ helping your anaemia either, is it? So”_

_Steve gives it right on back. “And spicy stew isn’t going to do much better except give me heartburn as a extra special bonus.”_

_Bucky blinks, taking that point. His mouth forms into an ‘O’. “I don’t…oh…oh. Then…fish oil!” He says out of _ _nowhere_ _, running into the kitchen and clanging in the cupboard. He’s back before Steve can try to respond with the bottle and a _ ** _ **huge**_**_ serving spoon, looking like he’s solved the world’s problems. “That’s good for your heart, right?”_

_Steve is bewildered, “How do you know that?”_

_“I did listen to your ma you know, so have some of”_

_Steve raises his hands to stop him. “Bucky for lord’s”_

_“Christ Steve, will you just let me help you here!” Bucky _ _suddenly_ _ exclaims, the spoon bouncing on the table with a sharp _ ** _ **ping.** _ ** _ “I get why you don’t want me to - I know that was your ma’s thing - but II can’t just stand here waiting for you to pass out on me!”_

_Steve blinks, swallowing._

_“I’m not trying to replace her, of course I’m not. I’m not pitying you either - but I can tell you feel miserable so II just want to help. So will you please just lower your damn walls, _ ** _ **let me,"**_**_ he _ _pronounces__, “and drink this damn oil!”_

_A moment lingers_

_“Are you done?”_

_“Hyes, I’m done!”_

_“Okay,” Steve says, “hand me the oil.”_

_“If you would justwait, really?”_

_Steve nods at his surprised face, hand beckoned out. Bucky hands It over, and when Steve can’t pour it onto the spoon without spilling it all over the table, takes the spoon without a word and pours it for him. Steve takes two disgusting swallows to make him happy. “We good?” He asks at the end of a grimace._

_“We’re better.” Bucky allows after matching his grimace, sniffing the bottle before putting the lid on and emitting a ‘yuck.’_

_“Okay, look.” He says, shaking his head and sighing a moment. “This isn’t a cold, or a fever, or…whatever it is you’re supposed to _ ** _ **feed.** _ ** _ This is part of it all - part of me. _ _My_ _stupid heart that likes to make itself known by pounding in my chest and making my eyes go crossed. It’s always going to happen.”_

_“Oh…okay.” He replies after a stalled moment. He looks worried, but also buoyed with reassurance. “I can deal with that, I can”_

_“I know you think you can, and you know that I trust you to if I need it, pal. Which I don’t always as much as you think I do.” Steve _ _interrupts_ _ softly. “Ithat’s not my point. It’s not fair to rely on you like this all the time.”_

_“Seems fair to me.” Bucky says, “an even exchange.”_

_Steve unable to stop himself, scoffs, sways, and has to sit back down. He pulls the blanket back up on his shoulders before Bucky can fuss about it himself. He gestures to the two of them, _ _incredulous__. “What part of any of this friendship has ever been even-sided?”_

_Bucky frowns, sitting in the other chair. He looks confused. “What do you mean?”_

_“Buck, look at us.” He gestures to Bucky again - “good looking, popular as high hell, friendly, confident, fit as fiddle; healthy in everything else too - against this. You’ve been helping me out our whole damn lives - doing my homework, picking me for teams even though I loose us the game every. _ _S__ingle. _ _T__ime. **C**_**_**atching me from cracking my head open on concrete.** _ ** _ Finishing fights for me. Trying to hook me up with dames. Nothing about us has ever been even!” He laughs to cover how painful that is, and has to press a hand against his chest as it spikes._

_“I don’t think about it that way.” Bucky replies._

_“Don’t lie_

_“I’m not lying!” He implores, looking very serious. “I don’t care if you can’t run as far, or, or whatever.” He shrugs. _

_“I know you sayyou can’t deny it Bucky.” He changes instead. _

_Bucky’s _ ** _ **always** _**_said he doesn’t care. He’s always said that he doesn’t mind giving up hours of his life going over everything Steve missed in every subject, or _ _doesn't_ _ mind missing out on games and meet-ups just to sit on the other end of Steve’s bed. He’s a giver. He always has been. And he’s always said it, but even now, Steve can’t understand how that can be. He always tries not to be a taker, but Steve’s such a lot of work. He knows he is__._

_ “This is not even, and it never has been. It’s not fair to put my health issues onto you as well.”_

_“What does it matter if I don’t care?” Bucky says again, “I_ **_**like** _**_helping you as much as you probably hate_ **_**being ** _ ** _helped.”_

_“Why?”_

_“You don’t let people struggle when they don’t need to.” That’s a line he’s heard before - Bucky’s quoting Mr Barnes. “And - what does it matter if you lost us every single damn three-legged race we’ve ever ran - because you know what; winning doesn’t matter when you’re having fun. When you’re not you that is.” He rolls his eyes, “And you tripping us and giving me grass stains up to my eyeballs was fun. So no, I don’t think about it like that, _ ** _ **because that’s no way to think about it unless you want to be depressed**_**_.” The last part is added pointedly. _

_He_ _shrugs__, “I don’t like to be depressed, I like to be happy.”_

_Steve softens, “even if that’s true, that doesn’t make it even.”_

_“Oh my god.” Bucky groans, looking at the ceiling in _ _exasperation. _

_“Don’t”_

_“Take the Lords’ name in vain, yes I know.” He cuts in, “will _ ** _ **you ** _ ** _get off your self-deprecation low horse already? It’s not attractive. Positive outlook man, come on.”_

_Steve slates a look at him. “How does it in anyway work out as even to you then? Explain it to me.”_

_“Will you get off the whole equality stint, already?”_

_“No. Explain it to me.”_

_“Eat your bread and I will.” Bucky challenges, waggling his eyebrows. “While it’s still warm. It’s not crusty, I checked.” Steve rolls his eyes; because his best friend has never had any kind of _ _patience_ _…And…He’s right, Bucky doesn’t wait. “Because I get you as my friend, Steve, that’s why.” _

_Steve swallows, leaning back and lowering the bread he’s started shredding in his hands. It’s warm, steamed - because Bucky’s _ _purposefully_ _ made sure it was soft for what he suspected was a sore throat. _

_“Because you’re a fucking catch no matter what you think, so that’s enough for me put up with you snotting on me every year if I gett’a shoot the shit with you, okay? It’s even enough for me to slave over stew I have no idea how to really make to you feel better, only for you to ignore it and break my heart.”_

_He’s blurted into an unexpected smile. “Are you trying to guilt me?”_

_“Is it working?”_

_“A little.”_

_“Then yes.”_

_Steve rubs his eyes, smiling despite himself, and pink with a pleased blush. “You really want in this?” He has to check once more; again and again, because Bucky’s right in that he was almost taking ma’s spot and that Steve has pride - but that’s not all there is. Because Bucky doesn’t know, not really._

_There’s always a part of Steve that’s been worried that one day would be _ ** _ **the day.** _**_The day where him, and everything that comes with him will be too much work; too much to deal with - and Steve will loose him. Bucky would never drop him like a hot potato - he knows this as strongly as his can feel the pain in his heart right now - but there’s still a chance that he could back off, and the distance would only become wider over time. _

_And the truth is - Bucky has dozens and dozens of friends he can fall back on or pick up with - and Steve - Steve has Bucky and Bucky alone. He can’t afford to loose him - if he did - life wouldn’t feel like any kind of life worth living; not for a long _ ** _ **long** _ ** _ time. He doesn’t ever want to feel as lonely as he used to feel as a kid - the _ _loneliness_ _that stopped the _ ** _ **very** _**_second Bucky Barnes, missing his front tooth, smiled at him that first time._

_It isn’t fair that Bucky has to put up with all of this - Steve should be able to look after himself for at least three-hundred and sixty of the three-hundred and sixty-nine days of the year, but yet can barely meet three-hundred._

_ So he was trying._

_He vowed to himself when he finally made the decision he’d been putting off for months, still steaming with some upset and a swollen lip, that he wasn’t going to lean on Bucky the way he’d had to on his ma. _ _He_ _ wasn’t going to let Bucky bend himself into knots without thinking about himself; and he certainly wasn’t going to let him _ ** _ **break**_**_._

_(_ _Like ma?_ _T__hat’s what you were gonna say, wasn’t it? Am I tryna' starve myself like I starved ma till she was too weak to fend it off?”_ _)_

_( It...__That’s not what I meant._ _)_

_(_ _Yes it was._ _)_

_He was determined that Buck would never have to learn what the word chronic meant; determined to prove that…he doesn’t know what he was trying to prove. He _ _supposes_ _ he was trying to protect Bucky the way Buck’s always protecting him on the street and everywhere else too. He was doing good - approaching his fifth month with nothing more than a mild shortness of breath on his paper round, and only two sick days logged onto work’s attendance log; and he forced himself out of bed to do his errands with his heart fluttering like a butterfly learning to fly the rest of the time._

_Then _ _goddamn_ _fucking Bucky walked in with homemade stew hot enough to burn his lips off and a threat to airplane it at his mouth. This damn stew has thrown all that planning and _ _composure_ _into the dirt. How the hell did he ever end up with someone so good in his life?_

_“Ten hundred percent.”_

_Steve smiles; that’s their lucky percent. “It’s a lot.” He warns._

_“I can take it.” Bucky promises. _

_You say that now._

_“It’swe’re gonna have to do baby steps, okay?” Steve says instead, “I don’t feel comfortable loading my,” he gestures at himself, “everything onto you all at once - out of - out of fairness to you, but also - it doesn’t feel good having you do everything for me. Makes me feel like shit.” Steve, at least, is being honest._

_“I don’t want you to”_

_“I know you don’t mean to - but no matter what, it’s going to,” Steve explains softly, “I’ve got to have respect for myself, so I’m going to need you not to smother me or treat me like I’m ten seconds off smashing to pieces. I’m not some flimsy piece of glass.”_

_“I think with how many times I’ve let you get punched in the face proves that I don’t think that. At least I hope it does.” Bucky ponders, “I could give it a go right now to prove my point if you like.”_

_“If you wanna give me a heart attack right now then sure.”_

_Bucky laughs lightly, then his face sinks as he _ _realizes_ _ Steve isn’t joking. “Wait, seriously? I could - when it’s like this? Geez Steve,” he rakes a hand through his hair, “you can’t say stuff like that and not expect me to freak out<strike> "</strike>_

_“Exactly my”_

_“No, shit sorry. “ He cuts in quickly, “Freak out done. I’m not freaking out, who’s freaking out?”_

_Steve raises an eyebrow at the higher pitched voice. “Apparently still you.”_

_Bucky waves a hand between them - “Nope. Totally not - cool as a cucumber I am. Okay, got it. Baby steps - no wrapping you in blankets and tucking you in at night - because that would be fucking _ _weird_ _ anyway - or no making you food, apparently, or”_

_“Buck.” Steve _ _interrupts_ _ gently. Bucky looks at him. “Stop. With the words.”_

_“Am I ranting? I do that. I’m ranting again, aren’t I?”_

_“Kinda’.” Steve replies, fond and amused at once._

_“Sorry.” He says again like he always does. “I can deal. Baby steps - got it. Lay it on me - everything you and Sarah have _ _apparently_ _ been keeping to yourselves.”_

_“It wasn’t against you, you know that right?” Steve has to say, _ _inexplicably_ _ picking up on a tone that may or may not be in there. “I just didn’tI didn’t want you to look at me like that. Because things were so great.”_

_“No, I get it. It’s okay.” Bucky says. “Ten hundred percent, remember? Doesn’t matter to me how a lot ‘a lot’ is.”_

_He huffs, still in two minds, but at the very least rests his feet by plopping them on Bucky’s lap._

_“Jesus.” Bucky mutters, pulling the edge of his sock up to look at the swollen appendages. “These are _ ** _ **fucking ** _ ** _huge.”_

_“Welcome to the world of chronic conditions.” Steve replies lightly._

_“Chronic?”_

_“Long term. Long-lasting - always going to come back and bite me in the ass.” He knew he would have to do this. “If it even leaves at all. It’s like my asthma, that’s chronic too.”_

_“Okay.” Bucky says, taking that at face value, “so it’s not pneumonia.”_

_“It’s not pneumonia.” Steve promises, understanding why Bucky was worried about that. “Swear straight.”_

_“How many do you have?” He asks, “Chronic stuff.” Steve looks away, “I’m in pal, I gotta’ know.”_

_“Lost count honestly. A good few.”_

_“But your heart’s one of them.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“And what it’s doing now - what happens? How does it feel? What helps?”_

_Steve answers the line of questions as best he can, as neutrally as he can for about half an hour, and Bucky; he sits there with Steve’s legs on his lap as the stew goes cold, listening intently. He asks logical questions Steve’s never considered important before, or asked himself, because it’s something ma has always known - but hold really big sway. He asks about the ones that aren’t his asthma or heart too - and then they have a conversation about where Steve draws the line._

_“So, making you food - is that smothering?”_

_“Well, no.” Steve has to allow. “It was just unexpected.”_

_“But don’t make you food to clear out your sinuses when your hearts going like a jack-rabbit, got it. Oops.”_

_“Don’t you’re not a doctor, Buck, so how could you know? But - thank you for going to so much effort with the stew anyway. Is it really ma’s?”_

_“As close as I could get it from her _ _recipe_ _ card, some was a bit _ _water-damaged_ _. I also may have said fuck it, double or nothing, and threw in a bunch of chilli paprika I found at the back of the cupboard too.”_

** _ **Steve **_**_nearly takes the Lord’s name in vain there, because he remembers how hot his ma’s version was, and that was most certainly enough to clear _ ** _ **everything ** _ ** _out of his lungs with his _ _sensitive_ _ stomach. Bucky learnt whatever he can cook from his own ma, who grew up on dishes hot enough to singe your eyebrows from sheer _ _flavour_ _ \- so he’s not always the best judge of how much is too much. It makes Steve laugh. “Your tolerance for spice is very different to my tolerance - you tryna’ turn my stomach to mush?”_

_“That’s the aim, yeah.”_

_Steve smiles again - “I appreciate the thought, if not the secret desire to kill me.”_

_Bucky laughs this time, his mouth the wide grin Steve loves, leaning back in his chair; Steve’s feet still on his lap with his own feet hooked on the rung of Steve’s. He wonders what his ma would think of them now, if she could see. He imagines her standing there, just to the side of the front door - watching them with her head tipped against the door-frame. He wonders what she’d be willing to say to him, about this;_ **_**them**_**_; their intimacy…let alone what would be going on in her own thoughts. _

_They’ve gotten so much closer since hawking all their _ _furniture_ _ up three flights of stairs; before cracking open root-beer and bedding down on the floorboards; staring at their new ceiling like they were looking for _ _constellations_ _. He remembers his chest was hurting then too; but it hurt from the sheer force of laughing so hard instead; one _ _spectacular_ _ night where he was able to forget his ma wasn’t here with him anymore. Since they started their first home together. Some people would say they were too close, especially for men of their standing, colour and persuasion. _

_Steve - he doesn’t fucking care. He knows he’d tear the whole world apart for this man if he had to._

_“Speaking of baby steps - if I brought you crackers would you eat them?”_

_“Sure. But not now. I’m comfy. Later. I’ll let you help a little.”_

_“How little? How about popping off your essay to your professor so you don’t get on the subway little?”_

_“Too little.” Steve tells him. “I can’t let it win.”_

_“Pretty sure you’re not in _ _competition_ _ with your own body, Steve.”_

_“_**_**Oh, I am.** _ ** _” He declares quite certainly._

_“Ain’t no way these are fitting in your shoes,” Bucky then says, and then begins massaging his swollen feet. Jesus this guy. “So that settles that anyway. You ain’t going out. I win, you motherfucker.”_

_“You do not win.” Steve pushes out as Bucky also _ _immediately__ finds the _ ** _ **best spot** _**_on his left foot. He groans with feeling._

_“I totally do.”_

_ Steve opens his eyes, looks at his friend._

_With you until the end of the line, no matter what, no matter how hard it gets. _

_“You’re real swell, you know that right?” _

_“It has been said.” Bucky winks at him._

The jangle of the bell signals the lady coming out onto the front, wiping down the other tables around him and collecting his now empty cup.

“No relationship was made good without putting the work in, hun.” She adds as she clears. “Do you love your other half?” _I do._ He nods. “Then I’ve got no doubt you’ll work things out, you just gotta shift through the hard first.”

_We’ve been shifting for a while._

No, actually…they haven’t. Bucky’s been shifting on one line. Steve has been entirely on another; because he hasn’t been listening. They’ve shifted the hard together before, sat at their tiny dining table; _Steve’s hard._ His best friend took it on double or nothing - it’s time for him to take one for the team for _Bucky’s hard_ now.

“Let her let you pay for it for a while, mark my words; it’ll be what she wants. But things will be better” - she cants her head up at the sky; obscured with brown and grey barrage balloons hiding the blue sky of morning, and all the rubble on the street. An entire corner block is blown apart, and there’s spilled sand bags soaking up water from burst pipes. “Not like they can get any worse.”

. . .

BBC LOURES, FRENCH SERVICE, BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, MAY 23rd, 1944

[JINGLE] :

_ Radio Paris ment,_

_ Radio Paris ment. _

_Radio Paris est allemande._

_(Radio Paris lies, _

_Radio Paris lies. _

_Radio Paris is German.)_

_C’est Londres. Le Français s’adresse à la Français. Frank Bauer speaking. Il y a un incendie à l’agence d’assurance. Jean-Paul aimerait se raser la tête. Quelqu’un a des ciseaux ? _

_(_ _There is a fire at the insurance agency. Jean-Paul would like to shave his head. Does anyone have any scissors?)_

. . .

Steve knocks on the door gently after nearly three hours walking the streets.

It’s just gone 8am, and the public were all up and on their commute on his last circle round. He’s stopped by his own unslept-in hotel room for a change of clothes - and wasted some extra time picking the lint off his old shirt.

There’s the padding of steps on carpet, the door opens a crack….and stops. He hears Bucky take a resolute breath, and then it opens the rest of the way. He’s changed, it looks like, and has clearly not long washed his face from the missing tear-tracks; and the water droplets dribbling off the ends of his hair. The breadths of his shoulders and shallows of his neck glisten from the moisture when he swallows as he sees Steve standing there too. He’s shirtless but Steve can’t see anything past his collarbone since he’s wrapped himself in the second blanket he threw over the bed and Steve straightened last night. He’s still in his wrinkled trousers and the previous day’s socks.

“It’s you.” _Of course it’s me._

Steve’s eyes inadvertently catch on the five-milimetre brown ovals visible at the crux of the neck and shoulder, which are usually covered by Bucky’s collars or buttons. There’s three on the right and another on the left. They look almost like big freckles; hyper-pigmented but flat because they’ve healed so nifty in the months past - but Steve knows they’re not freckles. Bucky didn’t have freckles before - not on his shoulders. He has some on the back of his legs, and one on the corner of his hip - but not his shoulders.

In many ways; if you saw Bucky’s body you wouldn’t know what he’s been through past the tense posture and spine; and the nightmares; because there’s barely a scar on him anymore. Steve credits it to the fact that Bucky’s always had an insanely strong constitution unlike Steve - but the burns are slower to fade. He’s seen Gerald Clayey’s arms enough during adolescence and after it that he knows exactly what cigarette burns look like when they’ve been put out on the skin. They scar more than actual scars do. Bucky’s look better than most he’s ever seen, granted - but it ignites something fierce every time he see’s them. Something in him burns hot; and keeps burning for hours on end, which is probably exactly why Bucky doesn’t let him see them; or any part of his body anymore if he can help it. Even when bathing he makes sure nearly all of himself is submerged; and he dresses as quickly as he used to scoff down his ma’s chocolate cake.

Bucky’s hand, blanket edge caught in the crux of his thumb, raises up to touch the collection self-consciously. Steve forces his eyes up so they focus on Bucky’s face. _Sorry, pal._

“Can I come in?” He asks softly.

Bucky swallows, hikes the blanket up higher on his shoulders without exposing any more inches of himself, twisting his arms beneath it; shrugs. He turns away from the door but leaves it open._ Okay._

Steve steps in hesitantly with the cup of coffee from the breakfast room downstairs; one sugar with a special treat of vanilla dunked in unbridled. He’d snuck in around the edge of the room to the bar to order it special, and luckily Gabe’s head was so far down in his hands as he pushed slices of sausage around his plate and into his mouth he didn’t notice his Captain sidling past him against the wall. There was a second coffee on the table - so Steve would bet Falsworth is the other one up and a’tem. He must have stepped away for a moment to the bathroom or something, to Steve’s luck. He reckons the two of them have a few hours yet until they’re hunted down if they don’t turn up to the paid breakfast of ‘bed and breakfast’.

“This is - this is for you.” He informs gingerly; holding it out. “It’s got vanilla in it. I er, I had a cup like it in Rhode Island when I was touring - a Italian place - It’s something I thought you’d like the second I had it. Was planning on taking you to the same joint when you came home. It was going to be a surprise - but I figured this might be a vanilla day…what do you reckon?”

Bucky lowers himself onto the bed, wraps the blanket further around him; eyes flickering between Steve’s big head and the blue and white mug.

“Where’s..do you not have one?”

“I had a cup of tea not long ago.” He offers it again, and Bucky hesitatingly takes it. Takes a sip, and a flicker of enjoyment takes over. _Damn sweet-tooth,_ the teenage Steve says from somewhere.

“It’s good.” He murmurs, taking another.

“Surprise?” Steve offers; taking the chair by the credenza and swizzling it with a loose movement so he can sit opposite. He takes a seat, then leans forward, clasping his hands as Bucky swirls the cup around, looking down at the spinning froth. “I’m…I’m really sorry about last night, Buck.”

Bucky makes a humming sound at the back of his throat, his head still down.

Steve nearly next says_ It’s good to see you out of the bed _\- then realizes how ****fucking patronizing**** it sounds when he imagines it being said to him._ Jesus Steve, stop. _

“’kay.” Bucky replies, dully, after a second. He stays looking at the carpet and not at Steve.

Steve nods to himself, twiddling his thumbs as silence retakes; and Bucky then says:

“You still want to talk, don’t you?”

“I...” Steve can’t deny that, but this isn’t about him anymore. “…I mainly just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m not.” Bucky replies abruptly, still not meeting his eyes or any part of him for that matter. His eyes are fixed firmly on the wool bulbs of the carpet to the right of Steve’s chair. “But you know that already.”

_I do. _“That’s…that’s not anything you need to feel bad about. Not being okay.” Steve replies after a stilled moment, “I wasn’t okay after ma’s death, and you never let me feel bad about...about feeling it. I tried to do the same after your pop’ died; but everything all started happening so fast after that we never really….what I mean to say is…I’m really, and I mean, _really fucking sorry_ if I made you feel bad about not being okay. I think after everything - you, more than anyone are allowed to not…” His voice trails off in failure, and he rubs his eyes with one hand. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, here.”

Expecting something along the lines of _‘you never do_’ Steve feels the room grow exponentially duller when it doesn’t come at all. Bucky instead barely reacts, only blinking occasionally at the carpet with the mug sat on his blanketed lap. He has both hands curved around it. Steve makes himself take a strengthening breath.

“All I know is I screwed I fucked up,” he replies now resolutely, “and have been fucking up for a while - and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about that. About everything, I”

“Please…please stop apologizing.” Bucky interrupts quietly.

Steve leans back, silenced. “You normally like it when I apologize,” he returns at the same volume, an observation; not an argument. He’s…he’s surprised. “Because then you know I mean it…Vindication, I think you’ve called it before.”

“You said it once. So I know. Just please stop.”

“Okay. Sorry.” He stalls right after. “Sorry I keep saying sorry.” He adds belatedly, “it’s a new thing for me.”

Bucky closes his eyes and huffs a breath out of his nose, a resigned laugh that despite it feels genuine. He breathes in large but quiet, just once. “I can…I can try…just this morning. For an hour. Okay?” He says, opening his eyes and meeting Steve’s.

“Try what?”

“Talking.” He replies. “About_it_.” His eyes are bright, and he looks pained. “But…can I just…can I drink my coffee first?”

Steve smiles briefly, a quick flicker of it. “Course you can.” He says, “it’d be a damn shame if you wasted that beautiful froth.”

Bucky returns it, even more briefly, then sticks half his face in the mug; looking at the carpet and letting the steam hit his face as he takes small swallows.

“You don’t have to.” Steve cuts in before too many moments take - _he_ wants to, but he also wants to get _this_ out there. “Talk it out with me or…you don’t have to. You’re calling the shots from now on, okay? Not me.”

Bucky shakes a head mutely, sniffs in, rubs his eyes and face for a couple of seconds until he takes a breath. “It’s…there’s probably a lot of…there’s a lot of stuff we should probably air out now I…I don’t want to leave it like…like this.” He gestures between the two of them - so clearly he feels the complicated distance too. It feels awful. “I never feel happy when we’re fighting - so can we, can we _not fight_? Please?”

Bucky all his life has always; and Steve means _always_, been open about how he feels - overt and expressive; even blatant about how much he cares for Steve. He was always one to tell Steve how swell he was; and then tell everyone else how swell Steve was too - much to his embarrassment and Bucky’s refusal to take anything less. Steve’s always been a lot more quieter about the love he has for his pal; but it’s no less, so he needs to start showing it.

“I hate it too.” Steve matches. “You frown too much. I miss you smiling all the time when we do.”

His friend mutters under his breath, “That’s stupid.”

“No it’s not.” Steve disagrees. It needs to be fair. “It always used to make my shitty days nowhere near as shitty as they could be.” He nudges Bucky’s foot softly with his own, who immediately moves it away. Steve takes great care not to let his face flatten when it happens.

Bucky clearly sees it despite how Steve conceals. His face hardens.

“I’m still angry at you.” He warns. “I don’t like fighting with you - but I’m still angry. And…right now I don’t really feel like forgiving you.”

“That…" he pauses, swallowing. "...That’s totally understandable. I wouldn’t forgive me either.” Steve replies, feeling shitty but knowing he deserves it. The comments about Bucky’s parents were too far, _way too fucking far_ \- he knew it a whole five seconds before he said it but he was too far _in it_ hold back.

"I might not for a while." Bucky adds, "I don't know. You just..." He looks away. "I can't believe you said that shit to me."

Steve either. 

Steve made Bucky stew for near three weeks after Bucky said that thing about_ his_ ma; and Bucky certainly has held the silent treatment longer on his side before now; that argument at fifteen he remembers very vividly - so he knows how lucky he is to have even been let in the door - let alone be able to stay last night. They’ve only ever had three real fights. The rest they’ve all the other times were always petty flashes about the dishes or honest-to-god_ literal jokes._ It’s the way they’ve always been. They _don't fight_. They _pretend_ to.And those ones always cool off quick - tempers gone and forgotten by the time the night’s done.

They’ve fought more in the last year than they’ve fought in all their years together, but things have never been this damn _hard _before. 

"You meant it." Bucky says.

"I didn't." Steve reassures.

Bucky scoffs, bad-natured, then shakes his head stiffly. He watches the dust floating in the sun beams through the curtains. He disagrees. "It _felt_ like you meant it."

"I didn't." Steve repeats, "I swear...I was trying to rile you up. That's it. And I knew that would do it."

Bucky shakes his head again; another scoff; but quieter and disbelieving. "That's not an excuse."

_I know._ "I'm so"

"**_Don't._**" Bucky interrupts sharper, and Steve remembers.

"Right." He tacks quietly. His hands fiddle with a trailing thread from the seat cover by his thigh, then he starts carding them together. "I didn't mean it. Like I don't mean half the stuff I say in front of the cameras. I wanted to get through you, and I knew what would get your back up the most - and it was that. And the other thing. I didn't mean it and it wasn't_isn't_ true."

Bucky hums briefly, shortly, and Steve prays he believes him, but he's not sure.

"I still don't forgive you." He decides. 

"I get that." Steve thinks he might need to go find somewhere in private to go cry himself after this. “Hate me as long”

“I don’t hate you, you fucking moron.” Bucky interrupts again, “I just don’t like you very much right now.”

Steve nods, pausing. He's the one looking at the carpet now. He chews his cheek nervously, feeling something in his stomach at least begin to unravel. Bucky doesn't hate him. That's got to be something, right? He was so scared this was something he'd never be able to come back from.

"You told me to leave it in the past." Bucky states now, "Like it's something you just sweep past. I mean, _the fuck_ Steve?"

"I was trying to"

"Help." He states. "I know what you were trying to do. I feel worse. Well done." Bucky counters. It's flat. "That part; that part you meant for real. That part came after I started clocking you. You meant that." Steve looks back at the carpet. "I mean" Bucky carries on, using one hand to rub his face, half talking to himself and Steve. "I get what was plan was. I get where it came from. Why you thought it would help, catharsis right? Like we've done before."

Steve glances up, then nods.

"Yeah." Bucky replies, sounding resolved in being right but strained at the same time. "This isn't like before. I can't just shout, and get better; or suck it up and deal, like;" he clicks his two fingers, "like that, alright? How do you not get that it's different?"

Steve sighs.

"I want an answer." Bucky demands. Steve looks up to meet his eyes, but when he opens his mouth the words don't come out; because they won't be something that's helpful. He doesn't want to hurtBucky's face changes. He's seen the answer without Steve voicing it. "Because you don't know anything of what happened." It's quiet; he looks back at the carpet. "Right..._fuck._" He swears, "how could you know that it's different? I haven't told you anything."

"That should have been enough." Steve replies after a stall. If it'll stop Bucky from taking on more hurt he'll take the hit. He doesn't want Bucky twisting himself up even more. "I should have got that it was different, but I wasn't listening. Like you said. You tried to tell me in your own way."

Bucky hisses in a breath from his nose. He swallows and nods; his Adam's Apple tense in his throat. "I did." He confirms. "You didn't want to hear it. It's your fault.... and it's my fault. I didn't give you anything to work on. You probably thought your stupid experiment was the same as mine. It wasn't, by the way."

"I understand that now." Steve cuts in quickly through Bucky's continued words.

"But youI'm so fucking angry Steve. I thought neither of us could do worse than me after Sarah died, but you beat me. You fucking beat me. We're both shit, aren't we?"

A car backfires from outside, Steve nearly jumps - _shell, it's a shell; they're underLondon. Hotel. Safe_Bucky glances over his shoulder. Steve makes his muscles slacken. The newsboy makes it way to their street; shouting out the day's headlines. Bucky goes back to his coffee, rubbing his eyes. His breath sounds like it's about to start hiccupping.

“No pity parties, huh?” He replies instead of another apology, as that is another recurring trait; as much as ten hundred percent, Mush, Mowgli and Sweet Stuff. As firm as _‘til the end of the line, pal. _Steve’s never been able to ever match anything as succinct yet _paramount _as _‘til the end of the line_, and he reckons that 38’s Bucky has far outshone any chance he has of attempting it. But he will attempt.

“No pity parties.” Bucky replies, accepting that at least. “Forfor either of us.”

"Okay."

"I'm going to drink this. Can you be quiet." It's not a question.

Steve nods, and lets his eyes rove around the room so Bucky has undisturbed peace to drink his coffee. He takes his time, shuffling the blanket back up his shoulders any time it falls too far with his head down, and lingers several minutes with the mug still near his mouth when Steve knows there’s nothing left in the cup. His pupils are flickering through, not fixed, so he is present of mind. He’s not ‘gone’. He’s just stalling.

_That’s okay,_ Steve reminds himself. _That’s still okay._

Steve’s all in. Double or nothing. He can be patient.

“Do you…do you remember what I said last night?” Bucky begins out of nowhere.

“All of it. Do you?”

“Of course I do.” Bucky bites, scoffing.

He holds his hands up to show he means no harm. “I only meant because you had a lot to drink yesterday.”

“I wasn’t drunk.” Bucky tells him. “Not enough to forget _that._ I barely felt it.”

“You had nearly a whole bottle of whisky to yourself, pal; and shared half a bottle of wine with me for good measure.” Steve has to note. _You should have been off your bloody face._

“I’ve got a higher tolerance.” Bucky says, reaffirms: “I wasn’t drunk. I remember all of it.”

_Not good for his perception of Steve then, that’s clear._

“And I’m not _not-talking_ to you out of some…some great conspiracy or some shit, okay?”

Steve swallows and nods. “Okay.”

“I’m not. It’s not some…fuck, I don’t know, backwards ass move. I’m just not readyandand whenever you push me about it…it just makes me want to talk to you _even less._ If I could - which I…which I can’t right now.” He looks away, huffing. “This is pointless.”

“It’s not. I’m listening.” Steve reminds him. “Your shots. Your call.”

“I’ve told Gabe more because he doesn’t push.” It’s pointed.

“I’m listening,” Steve repeats.

Bucky, steeling himself, says: “I just mean. I’m. I haven’t been.” His foot starts tapping an erratic beat against the carpet, his hands start fidgeting; his knuckles crack. He puts the cup down. “Iit’s, its. Ever since” He growls, frustrated at himself. “I_fuck_.”

“Take your time,” Steve says gently, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together again._ You’re good, bud. You’re good. Take your time._

“I just” He scrubs a hand through his hair; a old habit he’s had as long as Steve’s known him. The foot slows, and picks up again; but it’s slower, more controlled. “It’s hard toto talk sometimes. The words just”

He falters, again; and Steve can see they’re not going to come.

“It’s okay.” Steve repeats.

Bucky takes a big long breath. He releases it just as long, lips shivering so it comes out shaky. “I didn’t…I didn’t talk to anyone for… for so long. In-in, in there. They, they kept me alone, after…”

He swallows.

“After what?”

Bucky shakes his head sharply, lips pressed; and shuffles an arm out to reach for his jacket. Steve backs off, giving him room, but he doesn’t put it on. Just pulls it into his lap so he can have something physical to compress into. His fingers shuffle over, and then clench into the fabric near the pocket. His other hand fiddles with the edge of a button. “Just…just after.”

That doesn’t answer the question Steve asked of what came before, but he feels like that’s as far as he’s going to get for

“Zola…” His voice cracks, “Zola was the only one who. Who, who”

“Who talked to you.” Steve finishes for him, hoping that makes it easier. The gratitude in Bucky’s eyes when he looks up to meet Steve’s tells him he’s correct.

“Hearing his voice again,” Steve adds softly, “on that recording must have…Christ,” he breathes, “I’m sorry Buck.” _He’s saying it again._

“Why?” Bucky says, “it’s not your fault, not - not that part.” One thing Bucky’s never done is hold back on calling him on something he’s done wrong, and a part of Steve is glad to see that hasn’t changed. “You didn’t know that, that, that he” He swallows convulsively, “fuck.”

_Still fine, bud._ He almost says. “I didn’t.” He then allows, _but I should have done, I should watched it alone first. _It’s not a fair thing to put on himself, since Bucky was always going to have to watch it as his second, but it’s not going to stop Steve either-way. “But”

“You can’tshouldn’t take responsibly for things you can’t, you can’t control.”

Steve smiles softly at him. Call him on it Bucky will, but he’ll also always assure Steve’s not taking on extra hurt he doesn’t need to. “I’ll try.” He promises, “but you’re…it’s not a matter of not wanting to talk about it, is what you’re saying? It’s like it feels like you physically can’t?”

Unconsciously, it seems; Bucky presses into his chest exactly the same why Steve used to do when his heart was acting up; the tangible motion to signify _hurt;_ and then moves up as though to rub at his Adam’s Apple the way Steve used to during an asthma attack; and right back down like he can’t decide between the two. But Steve understands_ vehemently_.

Bucky forces a shaky breath out, flaring his fingers off the blanket. “I forgot what it was like to…” The hand on his chest rakes through his hair again, the other clenches into the jacket, “to talk to someone who wasn’t, who wasn’t me. I…I talked to _me_ a lot in there.”

Steve nods, keeping eye contact as Bucky looks up.

“Saw stuff too.” He admits, like he’s daring Steve to do something about it. “Stuff that wasn’t there. Saw a lot of stuff.”

Honestly, Steve had already sussed that out long ago. The moment Bucky’s clung to that tree in the darkened firelight and begged him to tell him that what was happening was real, _he’d known_ \- known some part of his pal must have been lost in his head with the trauma. It’s a big admittance - and Steve understands what Bucky’s daring on him to do - to call out his crazy, to report it, get it seen to.

He doesn’t. He won’t.

“You weren’t in great shape Buck,” he answers instead, “it’s understandable that…” He stands from his seat, moves so he’s sat side-by-side with him on the bed. He begins to explain. “When your body’s pushed to the brink, with fever or with - with other things - stuff, _crosses over_ I guess. And you were on stuff pal, don’t forget, stuff we don’t know about. You were blazing with fever when I pulled you off that table. It’s a symptom. Just a symptom of your body trying to make sense of things.”

Steve at this moment wishes, very much, to lean in close; but knows right now with Bucky’s nerves still as raw as live-wire; and with how angry he still is, he won’t welcome it.

“I’m not so sure about that.” Bucky replies.

“That’s all it’ll be.” Steve assures. “I used to see stuff,” he admits now, to make it fair, “when I was sick.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker sideways, but he doesn’t turn. He asks quietly, nervously; “You did?”

“Uh-huh.” He answers, “from the fevers most of the time. Or when they dropped, when I was so tired and weak. Ma dumping me in an ice-bath normally whacked me out of it pretty quickly; shock, I think. It’s why I used to be so scared of head doctors and that when I was younger. “

This is something Bucky knows from Steve whispering it to him, almost terrified after his latest doctor’s appointment, under the couch cushions when they were eleven, a year into their friendship when a part of him had decided that he’d never trusted_ anyone_ in his whole damn life more than he trusted Bucky Buchanan Barnes.

“The stuff I’d see never made sense so I knew it wasn’t real. I watched my nose,” he tells, “grow as tall as the ceiling like I was pinnocino when I was little; swearing blind to ma that I wasn’t lying, and watched my arms all turn to wood. That was a horrible one,” he shivers, likely without meaning too. “It didn’t go away for ages, just me; crying; staring at the age lines on my pine arms. Ma came to mop my brow, and I thought she was painting me with wood-stain.”

“That’s crazy.” Bucky murmurs, like they’re back home and he’s taking the piss. _It is crazy_, Steve agrees blandly.

He carries on. “When ma used to turn the radio onto the sports channel so I could listen to the baseball while I rested, my room would turn into a pitch, and I’d grow bigger; like I, well like I am now, so that I was able to actually play. I _loved_ those, they almost made getting sick worth it. The sound of the rain outside would turn into marbles raining from the ceiling, that one seemed to be a Scarlet Fever special. The wardrobe where ma used to stand when she was helping me, you remember? I hated it cause it used to grow eyes and a mouth sometimes, and talk shit about me and all sorts behind her. Always freaked me out.”

Bucky makes a sound, like a breath of air and a huff.

“What?” Steve asks.

Bucky swallows, frees one arm up to wet his mouth from the glass of water Steve left by the bed. “The wardrobe. When we moved it was one of the only bits of furniture you didn’t try to bring with you. I just, I just realized.”

“I had Mr McLeary help me toss it down the stairs and in the dumpster when you had a shift,” Steve admits, “and it had never looked better.”

A quirk of the lips and a hiccup of a laugh seems to splurge out there.

“And I heard _you_, actually, way more than just a few times. Laughing,” He adds, looking forward at the bible lying on the credenza, and without being able to help it; smiles. “Always laughing. Same as real life - those ones I always believed because of that. Your laugh, your voice; telling me to come play or something. Ma would always have to push me down into the pillows ‘cause I kept trying to get up and join you. I screamed at her once, apparently, ‘to get out of my way. Bucky’s waiting. We’re going to the pier’ and when she wrapped me in a sheet like a swiss roll to make sure I couldn’t do anything but lie still, I shouted, and I quote ‘We’re getting hotdogs! I want my hotdog!’”

Bucky snorts. It’s a win.

“I was always looking for you, but I could never find you. There was another where I thought I could fly; but I could only fly if I swam breaststroke in the air, and it was the only way I could get away from the ticking alligator who was chasing me.”

“Peter Pan, huh?” Bucky notes mildly.

“Peter Pan.” Steve confirms just as easily. Bucky nods back, says:

“Think I saw that one once.”

“You mighta’ done.”

“You, trying to swim into your bedsheets.”_ Sounds about right._ “You looked…you looked ridiculous.”

“Was I sleeping?” Bucky nods another time. “Yeah. That’s a recurring dream now. I get it every couple of years or so…My pa, or; who I think was my pa, he’d come talk to me sometimes. They were kinda’ nice, but sad now I realize, ‘cause I obviously wanted him there with me...And I thought I saw, well, thought I saw death, once.”

Bucky stiffens beside him. “When…when was”

“When we were sixteen.” He answers, “that”

“That winter.” Bucky interrupts, tensing more. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

“That whole time was pretty horrible.” Steve says before he can help it, “especially after.”

“You got better.” Bucky comments quietly, “you didn’t stay like that forever. Proved everyone wrong.”

“I seem to have a habit of that somehow.” He muses, “not really sure how I keep managing it.”

Bucky hums briefly.

“What I’m saying,” Steve starts again when it feels like the whole room as stopped, “is it happens when your body’s on the brink. The main thing is you’re not seeing stuff now. Just back then when you weren’t well.”

He looks at his friend, who won’t look at him, and something in him _folds_.

“Bucky, _hey. Hey._” He grabs his hand this time. “They’re not happening right now, are they?”

_Because that’s - that’s not good. That’s really not good if_

Bucky, after a moment, shakes his head. Okay. Good. _Good._ Still not great with everything else going on, but it’s _something._

“You’re sure?”

“Y-yeah. I’m notyeah.” He says. “I’m just, it’s just - it’s just _everything_, _all the time_.” He says eventually, infinitely stressed. “E-Either I’m not feeling enough, and everything’s grey and numb and fucking terrible; and it’s always going to be like that; it’s never going to get better”

“It will”

“And I’m making everyone as miserable as me, like I’m, like I’m some kinda germ or something. Spr-spreading. Or, or I’m feeling too much and that’s notnot, not good either and” The words come spitting out of him, fast and stuttering. The breath he makes himself take afterwards sounds wrenched. Steve moves his hand up, and Bucky yanks it from his grip, uses it to press a fist into his eyes; then uses the jacket in his other hand to hide his face.

Steve freezes where he is, hand held aloft uselessly in the air.

When the jacket drops back to Bucky’s lap; his hand’s woven into the inner pocket where he keeps his notebook and the picture of the girls Steve drew, and it’s clear to see he’s closed himself off.

_Damn,_ Steve thinks, but he promised he wouldn’t push. He reminds himself of the how and what Bucky screamed last night after Steve triggered him, how he dropped like a puppet with no strings after. The way he’d physically hiccupped into his crying instead of slowly sliding into it.

_It’s not helping, you’re just making him feel worse. You’re making him feel like he’s alone in this; making him feel like he’s wrong in the way he’s trying to deal with being fucking tortured, Rodgers. You remember what it was like in that chamber, you remember the way it felt, the way you screamed; how if it hadn’t been your one and only chance you’d have run away faster than a taxi trying to screech it’s way round Times Square before it got caught in rush-hour. The way you thought about jumping off Brooklyn Bridge, whether the fall killed you or not, just to escape that awful heat by hitting the cold water._

_You asked for it, and you got it. Bucky didn’t. You asked for it, and you got it for a whole minute; Bucky got it for what they think, think but don’t know for sure, over seventy days and seventy nights; like some sort of stupid biblical parallel. _

His new hatred for the guy upstairs rears up like it did last night.

_Imagine that heat for seventy days and seventy nights, of being his own version of left alone (rejectionbeing told he’s uselessbeing told he’s nothing), which has always been Bucky’s real kryptonite, and how would you react? Exactly. You don’t know._

_ You promised._

His other hand winds it’s way the other pocket; the inner one; and the fabric scrunches as Bucky compresses it into his fingers as a grounding forceSteve makes himself hear the noise again. It’s not just fabric. There’s something in the pocket, something metallic; squeaking as Bucky’s nails scratch against

“I really thought I was gonna’ die there.”

It’s a surprise when Bucky speaks again. He thought, from his expression, that that was going to be them, done.

“You”

“Don’t say ‘you didn’t’.” He snaps out. “Because I know I didn’t. I know that. I’m fucking here, aren’t I? I know.”

Steve swallows his words.

“It’s just…when you appeared above me in Zola’s lab, I thought, this is it. Finally. I’ve finally died - cause…it felt likeno, it _was_ the only escape. The only way out.” He sounds very sure about that, a conclusion he’s drawn despite how Steve very clearly found_ another _way to get him out. “But..at that point - they, _he_ kept doing stuff, stuff that felt like it was killing me - and then I just kept waking up. Still there. Always still there. And more stuff. And more and more and”

He stills right as Steve reaches a soothing hand out to place on his leg. Steve stops abruptly as Bucky’s eyes dart to it hovering just an inch off, like a warning. He holds it there in the air, but it’s done the trick and made Bucky take a breath before he works himself up again.

“I thought…I thought _yes._ This must be it - I can be dead and safe, and, and you were safe too; at home. Where I left you.” Bucky punches the mattress with his other hand and his face twists, not in physical pain, but pain of a different kind. “Jesus, Steve. Sometimes it feels like…like…how could you fucking betray me like that?”

_This is a wound he needs to lance, no matter how much it hurts me to hear it._

Steve closes his eyes, pulling his hand back into his lap. “I…I wasn’t,”_ thinking of you. No. _That’s not true; he was thinking of going out there for himself, for his country, _and_ for his friend and everyone already lost to it already. He was doing it to join Bucky out there.

(_Be careful.)_

_(Don’t win the war ‘till I get there.)_

“Say it.” Bucky commands.

“I wasn’t thinking of it as betraying you. I was thinking…you know what I was thinking.” He changes to. “You knew it before I knew it. You knew that I wasn’t going to stop.”

Bucky purses his lips, looking away. “No,” he admits, because that was as clear as day immediately after Pearl Harbour. “But I didn’t think you’d...”

“You didn’t think I’d actually make it here.”

Bucky shakes his head. _No, he didn’t._

“I was glad because….because it was much worse than pop’ ever told me at the beginning. You probably know that now. I thought, I thought I’d go to war - because that’s what I’m supposed to do for my country - and then I’m going to come back and start a life.”

“You can. We will.” Steve assures.

“_Don’t_don’t make promises you can’t keep Steve.” Bucky contradicts sharply. “You know that’s one of them. No one can promise that.”

“It’s not a promise.” Steve replies, “I’m telling you straight that’s what we’re gonna’ do. And I didn’t think about it as betraying you - because I wanted to go there to help_ keep you alive. _Not that I…not that I thought you’d need help but”

“Guess you were wrong.” Bucky states dully.

Steve watches him for close to a minute as his eyes stay at one point then flicker down, forward facing but otherwise not moving. He announces: “You’re not weak, Bucky.”

Bucky makes a face, scrunching, that Steve can’t quite decipher. “I feel like I am.” His voice cracks.

“You’re the strongest person I know.”

“No. The strongest person you know is you, Steve. I’m not…Peggy’s got more in her little finger than me in my whole body.”

“That’s not true.” He says quietly.

“Doesn’t change the way I feel.” Bucky counters. “Doesn’t change the….doesn’t change what happened in there. How I…how I handled it.”

“There’s no right or wrong way _to_ handle something like that Bucky.” His friend sighs. “There’s not.” Steve repeats forcefully. “Par for the course. No matter how it happened - you stayed alive, that’s all that matters.”

His friend goes to shake his head, then pauses, chewing his cheek. It’s clear he’s thinking of something. “I guess you’re right.” He admits after a moment. “I just…I don’t think I handled it the way you woulda’ handled it.”

“Screw me.” Steve scoffs easily, “I’m not the be all and end all. Hell, Buck; I started fights with every Dick and Harry on our block and then the block over twice a week - I’m not exactly someone you should be modelling yourself after.”

“You wouldn’t have” He bites his lip.

“Wouldn’t have what?” Steve asks, already not expecting an answer. Bucky surprises him yet again.

He runs a hand through his hair; scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know...broken apart?” He suggests, looking at Steve with bright eyes. “Told them to shoot you just tojust to get it to stop; and when they didn’t shoot you you tried to force them to. Given up when thatwhen…” He presses against his ribcage as his breath clearly catches.

Something in Steve physically_ shudders_, and then _shrivels up_.

He knew it was bad, but he didn’t know it was _that bad_. The flash of Bucky, staring blankly up at the ceiling, strapped right the way down to his ankles, covered in injection sites like a bad pox-mark affliction; abruptly flares. His eyes had gleamed in the sickly green light they were so glassy. The rest of him was so clammy and grey, and he had no idea who he was, where he was, what was real. That picture alone should have told Steve enough.

Very very quietly he asks: “You did that?”

Bucky; the bright and beautiful, always joyous, life-loving Bucky; tried to

Bucky lets out a shaky breath; then moves his head in pained nod. His entire personage breaks. “I’m sorr”

“_No_.” Steve interrupts, clasping his forearm tightly this time - no matter what - and refusing point-blank to let go. “No. You’re not apologizing for that._ I’m sorry _you felt like that was the only thing you could do. That’s not something for you to be ashamed of.”

“I just wanted it to stop.” Bucky nearly chokes.

Steve nods, as reassuring as he can. “I know.”

“I regret it.” It’s quick. ”_I want you to know I regret it._ I wouldn’t do it again.”

“That’s good.” Steve replies as calm as he can to contradict Bucky's frenzy. “But like I said - not something you need to be ashamed of with me. I’ve felt that way before too. Not same circumstances, but I understand, okay?”

Bucky catches his breath with quick pants. The look he gives Steve is a pure horrified question.

He nods, whispers a “yeah.”

He remembers when the sparse spaces of time became longer and longer after he woke up in a late 1936, nearly '37; how the weather outside the window turned from snowstorm to clouds, to winter breeze to the sun of springtime. He remembers watching, between slow blinks, a time-laspe of his mother’s herb seedlings sprouting on the windowsill; and the faded figures moving around him in grey blurs. He remembers how it all passed him by, months, and he could barely stay awake throughout a day, how he couldn’t sit up on his own, how he struggled to get words out. He knew the words he wanted to say; but it’s like something would ricochet between his brain and his mouth, and all that would come out was slurs or stutters. His left arm wouldn't stop shivering. They said it was the fever. The fever was too high, for too long. The doctor used the word _deficits_ the morning after Steve survived. His ma told him, because his ma was _always_ honest with him. He remembers the utter shame that he could never go back to school like this; how he could never do anything like anything ever again. He was trapped in this broken body for the rest of his time.

_Why weren’t you weaker Steve? Why didn’t you just die like everyone expected you to?_ _It would have been better if you were gone._ _You shouldn’t be here. Why didn’t you take that figure’s hand; the one on the horse; why did it retreat from you; why? Why, when you knew this could happen to you?_

Hope; that was why. That was the revelation he'd discovered. He’d hoped he would live before it got worse; he hoped he could beat it so his ma wouldn’t have to grieve him; he hoped he’d lived so he could make it to next May, not the May in ten years time, just this May - because they had a Coney Island tripped planned. That’s all he wanted. He’d had hope that he would survive this.

He did survive - and what had it left him? A simpleton and probably a cripple too. Hope had driven him to this; so he was going to stop hoping. That’s what he decided.

He was sixteen and his life was already over;_ I can’t draw, I can’t paint, I can’t speak - how is anyone going to listen to me if I can’t speak? How am I supposed to express my opinions, how am I supposed to express anything but pain of the body? I probably won't be able to learn any more. I'm the type of person people avoid in the street now, the type that they really do send away, the type they lock behind closed doors. _So what does it matter - _why can’t I just go now, instead?_ He could use the last bit of hope in him to end it; because that would be better than however he long he had left in this state of limbo.

He’d looked at the canister of rat poison on the mantle; but knew he’d never make it off the bed and across the room to reach it.

Then his ma had come in, smiled at him. “You look better today. Less peaky.”

Steve had made a hum of a noise, because that was the only noise he could safely make that came out right. His left arm twitched under the covers. She kept smiling at him, day after day; taking each day as it came to get him walking. He looked at the canister; it was bright yellow and lime green. The brand was _Ratsault;_ he'd seen the advert in the paper numerous times. It was good branding; standout-ish, good slogan, a nice design. Steve would've buy it; if he needed to kill some vermin._ Funny_ he remembers thinking dully, _exactly what I'm trying to kill now._

They'd tied wooden sticks to his legs for a while to help him stand and stop his knees from buckling. They'd kept them on his legs overnight so he could get used to it, for when his weakness got weaker and he had the energy to try._ Let's be honest, it'll probably be never._

"Don't say that honey."

"Hum-er nen, t-t-uh fuff." _It's the truth,_ that's what he was _trying_ to say.

His ma smiled at him, tugging the covers up to his chin. "Okay sweetheart." She'd kissed his forehead.

Later Steve had drifted awake to Bucky and his ma talking. His friend had his school bag, and the light was coming from window to the left of the apartment; so afternoon. He must have came by after he finished class. Bucky'd had a stack of some the school work Steve'd missed out on resting on the counter in addition to his own; Steve's own science textbook among them; he recognised the broken, peeling spine. He had his name written on the bookmark that hung out so it'd be easy to spot when some bully decided to try and take it. Bucky had broken into his locker to get it.

There was two copies of Ulysses by James Joyce he'd checked out of the library there too. He mentioned that's what they were moving onto in English a few weeks ago, Steve had thought, only physically able to listen to half the conversation at the time. Everything was in and out. Still is. His ma was trying to get his friend to put them back in his bag and take them away.

_"He hates being behind though, I thought"_

_"I know what you thought, honey, and it's very sweet. But this might be too much too soon. He's only going to get upset and frustrated"_

_"He read the clock the other day, Sarah. He's not stupid. He can"_

_"Doesn't mean reading, let alone studying, is realistic yet."_

_"He's not stupid." Bucky repeats, more insistent. "We won't know until we try. He hasn't tried yet; has he?"_

_"And if he can't?"_

_"Then it's something to work to, isn't it?" It's a quick retort by Bucky Barnes. He wonders what Sarah Rodgers' counter will be._

_"How's that going to make him feel?" Sarah says, quiet and soft in tone, but pointed to make Bucky think. "Having them lying around right now when things are so difficult? It's only going to remind him what he can't do. We have to take things slowly; focus on one thing at a time. Walking and talking first."_

_Steve sees Bucky look down. He runs that stupid hand through his hair again. "He hates being left behind in class."_

_His ma cups the back of Bucky's head, using her thumb to stroke behind his ear. She pulls him towards her for a hug. Bucky practically folds into her. "I know." She says into his hair. Bucky's probably the son Steve's ma always wanted, he decides, and instead she got landed with stupid, cripple Steve. Why is he still here? _

_"I guess you're right. Iwe, don't want to overwhelm him." Bucky says._

_He puts all the books back in his bag until it's close to bursting. He looks at Steve. Steve closes his eyes and pretends to be sleep; tears slipping out from his eyelashes._

_His ma moves the canister from the mantle to the kitchen counter; the next day its back on the mantle and there's powder against the chewed hole in the wall by the skirting. He can't walk, but he **can** have himself fall off the bed and roll across the floor and do something about the loose stuff.** Is there enough there to end it for mercy's sake, do you think?** _

_His ma smiles at him. _

_Bucky takes him under the elbows and heaves him up, letting him balance his weight. He pokes Steve annoyingly in the cheek and neck to distract him from ma tightening the straps when it's not enough to keep him upright. He asks Steve if he trusts him, and then pretends to **drop** **him.** He only intervenes when Steve's head is an inch off the floor and his neck's straining back from the force. Steve sneezes on the dust under the couch. Bucky snorts as he tries to restrain his laughter; vibrating under Steve's back and armpits. Instead of anger and frustration for how quick he tipped, Steve finds himself laughing at the lack of pity. His ma does not. She shouts. Then she banishes Bucky for three days._

_Everything is very quiet now. He's sad, and lonely, and angry. His ma is tired. She just worked two shifts, and Steve's neighbour is great at watching over him and getting food into him; but not very good at helping him make it to the bathroom. She's very proper; kind but proper, and Steve is sixteen. He's not letting some twenty something dame hold him up while he squirts one out or lets one loose. He holds it. He holds it until he can't; and when she leaves tries to drag himself across to the floor to the bathroom. He makes it, but can't heave himself up onto the seat; and spends the next hour until ma gets home in silent tears on the floor, covered in urine. His ma tells him that's what the bedpan is for. Steve manages to scribble out that 'that's worse' when Elizabeth's around, because he's already embarrassed enough around her. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable. His ma takes a breath, nods decisively. "Right." She declares._

_She lets Bucky come back if it'll stop Steve being so grumpy. Within the hour he's there with Jenna clinging to his head and a hockey stick. Steve would ask why, and Bucky would say;' you don't want to know pal, Jesus Christ', but he's tired and he's had enough. It's much louder now._

_The cannister is still there. _

_Bucky and Becca rock up with a contraption they made by pulling apart the loose planks off the local park's fence. His ma slaps a hand over her face._ _"**What** is that?"_

_"Crutches. Like you were talking about." Bucky answers obviously. "Homemade."_

_"I told him they were terrible." Becca comments, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. "He didn't listen to me." She curves her head past her brother. "Hi Steve, you're looking better." _ _He decides not to embarrass himself by speaking, so just waves. She waves back; then rolls her eyes and gestures rudely at her brother behind his back to make Steve laugh while Bucky argues the merits of his design. It works surprisingly. _

_There's no merit to it." She says again before Steve's ma can try and be polite, or turn to look pleased at the sound of Steve's amusement. "It's terrible. Don't worry Missus Rodgers; I already talked to ma, and she's making some that are actually practical if you can't get them from the hospital for him to keep."_

_"Wait, what? " Bucky sounds outraged. "When did you do that? We don't need ma to make them, mine are perfectly fine thank you very much."_

_"If I touch that thing I'm going to get a splinter." She accuses, like only a sister can. "You gave yourself seven putting it together and nearly stabbed yourself with a rusty nail. We need help. Ma's doing one better and doing the whole damn thing for you. Sorry, Missus Rodgers." She adds belatedly when Bucky stamps on her foot. "Ow." She expresses at him pointedly. "For the blasphemy. Not for telling him he's an idiot, because he is."_

_"Is that something your mother would be able to do?" Steve's ma asks in surprise, blinking twince to let that one slide. _

_"She built our parlour units, so yeah. Should be a piece of cake." Becca says, "she said she'd come by and try and sort your burner when she drops off the ironing too. Bucky said you were having trouble - she ain't got a mechanics certificate but she knows whats what in a engine. And to say thank you for offering her the ironing work."_

_"Oh." His ma replies, "that's alright, I haven't had the time for any of that at the moment," Because of Steve. "I'd really appreciate it. How's that sound sweetheart?" She asks, turning to Steve. "Getting you some crutches to help you move around a bit more before we can put the weight on your soles." If he even has enough body strength to use them. He nods at her anyway; and she raises her eyebrows, expectant. She wants him to say something; to respond; to talk; to practice._

_"S-Ssoun-fds g-ss-ud." He lies._

_"Good to hear it." His ma returns while Bucky and Becca bicker by the door; "We don't need her to do anything, why are you being so nice to her?""I'm not being nice to her, I'm milking her for favours after last month. Unlike you I take advantage of the guilt"_

The crutches Winnie Barnes dropped off a few days later were much much better; sanded down, and smooth, and padded. Bucky had begrudgingly admitted they were better than his; then swallowed enough of his pride to ask her to teach him bits and bobs of woodwork. Steve was able to make it to the bathroom with them; and keep himself up; even if one trip exhausted him for a whole day. Then two trips, then three. His ma kept smiling, kept making him talk. Elizabeth didn't need to pop in to check on him anymore. Eventually he was able to waddle to the kitchen and back. Then he was able to walk without the stick braces.

Bucky had sat at the kitchen table and told him to stop fucking sulking; because he couldn’t say ‘_supercalifragilisticexpialidocious__’_ either.

_“You just said it.” Steve sneers at him._

_Bucky points frantically with a giant grin. “And you just said _ ** _ **that**_**_!”_

_Well shit on a brick. Steve did just say that._

_Bucky pretends to fluff his hair like a dame-a-dora would. “And you say I’m not a good teacher.” Steve manages to get enough expression through his exhaustion to roll his eyes. “Wanna’ try dancing next?”_

_He takes an inside breath; sounds it out in his head, then curves the _ _syllabubs_ _around his lips. “Not wit’ you.”_

_“You forgot the h.”_

_“F-U-C-K Y-O-U.”_

_Bucky gives him a thumbs up across the way. He grins the biggest shit-eating grin Steve has ever seen in his life. “That’s my boy.”_

Eventually he’d noticed that the rat poison on the mantle was gone, and so were the rats; but mostly he realized that he didn’t need it anymore. He was still slower than he was; and he’d missed their trip to Coney Island, but a lot of time in bed meant that there was a lot of time to spend drawing; and he was way way better at that than before. His dexterity came back with the pencil in his hands; and flicking through nearly an entire sketchbook of only a month’s work; he’d realized that thisthis was something he wanted to do. This was a future he wanted. Hope was reborn again.

Then Bucky had banged the door open, flopped down dramatically on Steve’s legs over the covers; tossed his schoolbag over Steve’s cramping stomach; and complained loudly for over an hour about the new English teacher - and how apparently; according to that witch; The Hobbit doesn’t count as appropriate Literature study for this semester.

_“I mean, the thing is full of metaphors Steve. Full of em; and _ _similes__, and drama and emotion - there’s death and grief and - can you think of a better piece of literature that ticks all the boxes? 'Cause I can’t. And Gandalf - you remember Gandalf?”_

_Steve remembers Gandalf because Bucky had talked at Steve about Gandalf for god knows how long, and then re-read him the three main chapters after Steve fell asleep halfway through them the first time Bucky read his new book to him. _

_"__I re-remember Gan-e-dalf.” Steve replies _ _obediently__, tipping his head back to stare at the swirls in the ceiling in resignation._

_“Exactly. Gandalf! Who wouldn’t want to read an essay on Gandalf?”_

_This was where his hope of a quiet afternoon died on the spot._

“It was rough for a while.” Steve adds on quietly. “Butit passed because you and ma never gave up on me, and never let me stop working on getting my feet back under me. I’m over the idea, and the urge of it now. Like you, I regret it. Because things got better. They always get better. You taught me that. Or,” he considers, “your pa did. You don’t let people struggle when they don’t need to, remember? So let me help you this time.”

Bucky lets out a breath, leaning back and turning away; a forced huff. He repeats, like a calling card; “You wouldn’t have done a lot of the stuff I did in there.”

“Still doesn’t matter.” Steve tells him right back. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t know what they did to me in there, Steve.”_ I don’t think there is a figuring it out. _“Everything changed and, and the only good thing that came out of it was you not being sick anymore. You notnot being unhappy with yourself. That’s the only good change. Everything else is so different to how I thought it was going to be.”

“What did you think it was going to be?” Steve asks curiously."Maybe it would help if we start there."

“That I was gonna’, um, come back and you were gonna’ be there at that stupid train station with the girls; with a stupid flag you bought them round their shoulders cause you’re a smuck like that.”

“That does sound like me.” Steve has to agree.

“and I was good. It made sense in my head for that to happen, you know?” Bucky says. “But now…everything flipped and it’s like…it’s like I can’t keep up.” He waves one hand; spiralling it in circles like gears turning. “I was okay after I shipped out. After my first firefight, my fifth, my…I was doing okay, got a handle on the nasty stuff; made it make sense in my head.” The movements go from gears to sharp stoppety palms. “I’m good at soldiering, like everyone kept saying so. I was okay.”

_How many ‘I was okay’s has it been now? _Steve thinks.

“I liked the feeling of helping people,” he tells Steve, “knowing what I was doing was right - or at least; _my _motivations were right. Good for the world.”

“I never doubted they weren’t.” Steve replies, “You’ve always had a good heart.”

“Thank you for that unhelpful comment.” 

“It’s not unhelpful if it helps you feel better about yourself.” Steve replies as sagely as Bucky was sarcastic. “There’s no past tense about it either. Keep going. You’re doing good - what happened next?”

“I made the stupid decision to swing a piece of rebar at a guard’s junk on a whim, that’s what happened next.” Bucky retorts, “like _fucking idiot.”_ His voice breaks on the word; angry at himself._ " _I couldn’t control myself and I wanted to do something that wasn’t helping the enemy build their goddamn arsenal bigger than it already was. It was stupid. I regret it more than I regret the other thing, because it put me _there._ Got myself beat up. Got myself _sick. _Got myself noticed and taken and…” he breaks off his furious ranting to swallow, breath shaky again. “…then I wasn’t okay anymore.”

Before Steve can say anything his friend nods, like that recitation has given him the answer to another question.

“Now it. Now I...It feels like…like I’m…lost at sea with no land in sight. No meaning to mybut there’sthere’s U-Boats, right? U-Boats everywhere; and every time I swim closer to figuring things out - they set off another torpedo and I’m just as lost again. Do you know what I mean? Don’t you ever feel the same?”

“I think maybe I used to.” Steve admits, “Sometimes now - but in a different way. "With God.” Steve admits when Bucky looks at him in question. “I’m very angry at Him right now.”

Bucky blinks, stalled and clearly frozen in one spot from pure shock.

“It’s a thing.” Steve tells him as though he’s speaking about the weather; casual-like, because it is by now after all this time. “He knows why. If He wants to fix it then He’s going to need to find some way to answer me, because I’m done making excuses for Him.”

“W…what?” Bucky splutters. “You’re not supposed to be angry with God. It’s _you. _You’re supposed to love him all times, all ways.” Bucky states, “those are your words.”

“Doesn’t change the way I feel right now.” Steve quips right back.

“...but you...but you love god.” Bucky intones very quietly, looking very unsure about Steve’s admittance. Maybe because for so long that’s always been something of a certainty, and like most things, it’s not so anymore.

“You can love someone and still be angry at them.” Steve replies, dares to nudge him in the side. “You and me, case in point.”

He reaches over to pass Bucky the glass of water wordlessly when Bucky glances at it a second time. When they touch his hands feel hydrated and smooth. Steve subconsciously glances at the sideboard where Bucky emptied his pockets last night, to see he’s used the hand cream his ma sent him in the mail before Steve returned. He takes it as a good sign, as this means Bucky’s at least at the thought of taking care of himself in that way.

“Take a drink for a second, bud.” Steve encourages so he has moment to collect himself - because Steve has definitely noticed the erratic beat his foot has begun incessantly tapping against the floor for the last ten minutes. Bucky-boredom is when his hands fidget, but when his legs and feet start; that’s Bucky-anxiety. “Then back to you whenever you’re ready.”

After a couple of minutes Bucky sucks in another breath, and turns to face him properly; twisting his whole body and one leg onto the bed. “I’m not ready. That’s my point. You can’t just fix me til’ I am. An’I’m not. I keep, keep waiting towaiting to be; expecting to wake up either back in that…” he swallows, words closing up again, “that cell or back on that table - talking makes it worse right now. When I can…makes it come back. Until I’m past that then I can’tI can’t talk anymore about_ it. _This. No more.”

_I don’t want you to know how crazy I am,_ goes unsaid.

_You’re not crazy._

He shakes his head, declaring: “I’m stopping now. I'm stopping.”

“We can stop.” Steve agrees, “but for the future…Do you remember when you made me stew?”

“Which…” he takes a breath, regaining the last of his breath, “which time?”

“Ma’s pepper stew - and we talked. We talked a lot - about all my chronic stuff.”

“…what about it?”

“You told me you were all in; no matter what; you asked what I needed and when, and I told you. Remember?” Bucky nods at the floor, breathing through his nose now, less panicked. _Okay, good. _“Tell me what you need from me, step by step - and I’m there. Ten hundred percent.”

“I need to” He breaks off.

“What do you need?” He prompts at the break.

“I need to get myself ready - for me and not anyone else, without” He shakes his head, pumps twice at his chest - the_ hurt. The way Steve used to signify what was wrong when his breath caught and he couldn’t speak - his heart or his lungs - so Bucky would know which medicine to run for._

Steve’s already started nodding without him realizing. “You need me to stop pressuring you.”

Bucky swallows, nods, and his eyes nearly start watering again.

“You said you’re not feeling like you want to you don’t want to run into a hail of bullets anymore, yeah?” Bucky shakes his head. “But that everything still feels pretty down.”

Bucky nods, croaks: “grey.”

“Grey. So action plan - how do we try and make it less grey?

“Without talking about it.” Bucky says, “How do I make not grey without talking about it?”

_Now that’s a question_. “What were you doing before?”

“What?”

“You said you were doing things to protect yourself. Could you, could you maybe tell me about that? You said it was working sometimes - so what were you doing?”

“Um...I was…lucid dreaming. I was trying to lucid dream. To stop the nightmares. Ma told me how to do it in a letter.”

“She did?” Steve asks, surprised. “And it’s working?”

“Sometimes. I have to keep doing it - like tradition - if I forget I loose it. I have to repeat a mantra every night before, I have to write it down after. That’s the...that’s the fundamentals.”

“Good start. I’ll make sure you get the privacy to be able to do that. What else?” Steve prompts.

“I...I don’t know. I don’t know what else. I don’t know how else to do…”He squeezes his eyes shut, dragging a hand across his face and leaving it there.

“How about I just back off completely, is that something you want?”

He removes his hand, held upwards in a _‘who knows’_. “I don’t know.” Bucky replies helplessly again, nearly a resigned laugh, because he very clearly doesn’t.

“Okay. That’s okay. Well, how about this? It’s okay if you’re struggling. A little or a lot. I’m not going anywhere, but we’ll do it your way - so if you ever do want to talk, or just sit in silence, even if it’s just to keep an eye on you - just know, if you ever get to that stage - know that you’re not alone. I'll be here standing with you.”

Bucky presses his lips together, and looks him in the eyes as though he can finally bring himself to do it. “Really?” He asks, half a blurted whisper.

“Really really?” Steve parrots back, eyebrows raised. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me, and you’ve said a lot of stupid things. Yes really, you absolute moron. You’re the best thing in my damn life - I ain’t letting you go for for nothin’.” He drags the Brooklyn back from the depths of elocution lessons. “_But._”

He follows quickly with the rest before Bucky can think about the word.

“I know you’re angry at me. Really angry. But I’m going to do one last thing before it’s all completely you. It’s selfish. I’ll be honest with you there - it’s selfish, but it’s happening.

“I’m going to hug you now.” Steve warns, “a proper warm hug that’s going to last a minute, maybe more. You can count it to make sure I stick to it - but I’m going to hug you and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

“...a hug would be nice.” Bucky replies quietly.

That’s all there is to it - Steve clasps his shoulders and pulls him in. It’s not brief or bearish; like a hello or a goodbye. At the beginning, where Bucky is stiff and Steve is heartfelt; he closes his eyes; hand tightening between Bucky’s shoulder blades and over his lower back. He can feel the life in him, the blood pumping in his veins, and the warm breath on one side of Steve’s neck. Like a sudden flush all the self-conscious tension, however brief, waters down from Bucky’s head and leaves by his feet, like a drain, and he relaxes into the embrace.

It’s like they’ve never been apart, and Steve feels the intensity of it, opening his eyes to smell the familiar whiff of army soap; their chests pressed so close together Steve hears his own heartbeat match itself to Bucky’s.

It lasts for way longer than a minute, and after the first twenty seconds Bucky’s clinging back, almost needy. Two minutes pass. Then three. It’s clear neither want to let go, so they don’t. Steve moves the hand over the shoulder-blades up, resting it against the crown of Bucky’s head, careful not to touch the back of his neck. He returns it back to it’s first position. Bucky’s hand scrunches into the fabric of Steve’s shirt at the back; near his collar. It’s going to be wrinkled to hell when they separate. If they separate. He starts shaking into Steve shoulder with silent, and then not so silent tears.

“Don’tdon’t say anything.” He orders in-between.

Steve squeezes again, which makes Bucky shake more, and presses his cheek into Bucky’s ruffled hair. “Not anything to say.” He agrees, and they stay like that for nearly half an hour.

** **. . .** **

** **

Morita pulls him to the side with a hand on his forearm.

“Our resident hungover Henry would like to know if we’re having a problem today?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, “and which one of you is that supposed to be?” As far as Steve is concerned_ all of them _are Hungover Henrys. He and Bucky are they only ones even close to being bright eyed and bushy - and they’re certainly not that.

“Ha. Hilarious. No need to rub it in, Trouble.” Morita phases out with the same pained frown he’s had on his forehead all morning. “That tosspot over there.” He levers his head at Dugan, which Steve should have expected with their unexpected at the beginning but now officially worn-in double-act. “He’d come ask you himself...”

“But he might throw up on my shirt if he opens his mouth?” Steve guesses.

“Probably if he even stands back up right now; and the fella’ likes to_ pretend_ he can hold his drink.” Morita rolls his eyes. “But what’s the verdict? I’d like to know too, and I’m feeling it’s a yes.”

“What’s a yes?” Steve asks, “what problem are you referring too?”

“Geez Cap, surely you can tell.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him - so Morita empathetically says; “_Strife_.”

Strife is Bucky’s counterpart to Steve’s Trouble; one half of the old married couple down the lane. Steve glances at Dugan and sees he’s managing to flick his gaze between Steve and Morita’s conversation and his best friend staring at the papers in front of him with a down-turned mouth, all without moving his tender head. He looks like he’s about to say something,_ shit. _

“One of those days again, right? You want us”

“No.” Steve interrupts, “I don’t want you to do, or say anything. No comments, alright? Stop with the looks. Leave off. He’s okay, just…give him some space.”

“Did something happen?” Jim asks shrewdly. "It looks like something happened."

“Just give him space.” Steve repeats, “and make sure Dugan gets that memo too.”

“That sounds like an order.”

“It is.” Steve says.

“Don’t you wanna’” He stops talking as Steve shakes his head, not a warning in his eyes but Jim seems to take it as so. “You know,” he mentions after sighing shrewdly, “I’m starting to feel like a owl with this back and forth.”

“Then fly away and hoot your message over there.”

“Alright alright I hear ya. I was just”

“I know. And he knows, so he doesn’t need anyone to tell him so. Mentioning it isn’t gonna’ do anything - I’ve got it handled. You don’t need to worry.”

Morita chews his cheek and nods more decisively at the sure look that must be on Steve’s face. He’s not just saying that for something to say - he has got it handled now. “That’s good to know.”

. . .

Later when they’ve done their due work Steve convinces Bucky to go back to the hotel.

"I've rebooked the room. So you can have more space. Will you come?"

Bucky sits quietly with his head down, pushing mashed potato around his plate; not eating. "Do we have to keep talking?"

"No." Steve replies, leaning across the table so they have some version of privacy from the boys chatting beside them. "Just to give you a break. I don't have to stay."

Bucky nods mutely.

Steve reaches out to squeeze his forearm; and Bucky recoils sharply; tucking it under the table so Steve can't try again. "_Don't push it_." He warns, and its the first thing he's said to Steve voluntarily since they forced themselves out of the hug this morning. "I don't want you touchdon't push it."

Steve pulls his hand back hesitantly; and Bucky shoves his chair backwards with a scrape to walk out. He tosses his tray with a clatter towards Dugan to finish. The mashed potato is so dense it stays in one solid block.

"Who shit in his breakfast?"

_That one would be me._

. . .

He goes to Peggy; he goes to Peggy and makes something rather clear to her.

“He’s not doing it again.” Steve had decided afterwards, right at the start, and he’s sticking to it. Now he’s voicing it.

Peggy sighs, putting down her pen and clearly already aware of the conversation's subject.

“He’s not.” Steve repeats. “I’m not having him feeling like he’s being forced into anything - he’s had enough of that.”

“I’m not forcing anything.”

“And I’m just saying.” Steve iterates.

“Okay fine.” Peggy says easily, “but if he were to agree by his own choice without high-stakes?”

“_Peggy._” Steve stresses.

She levels a look at him. It’s a flat unimpressed look he has recognized as a signature Peggy Carter look. “I know you heard our conversation at the cafe.” She states very clearly. “I know how far your scope of hearing is; I’ve seen the experiment reports. Also…” she adds latent, cocking her head as if she’s taking the matter into consideration. “You need to get better at hiding around corners. You are not very good at it.”

He sighs in resignation. “I knew you’d seen me.” He admits.

“Seen you eavesdropping on a private conversation? Yes. But who hasn’t done that a few hundred times.” She allows, “would you sit down. You’re making my neck ache at this angle.”

He obeys and sits, and they almost have a staring contest.

“He broached the conversation Steve, not the other way round.”

“I know. I heard that part.”

“You heard all of it then.” She concludes, “so you know he’s clearly considering it on his own terms. I swear to you - outside of that night, I haven’t said a word. He came to it on his own. He wants to be useful.”

“There’s plenty of other ways he can be useful.” Steve counters.

“I’m just repeating what he told me. If he chooses to, are you really going to get in the middle of it?”

“I don’t want him to do it.” Steve can only cannily state instead.

“Whether you want him to do it or not shouldn’t have a bearing on his decision, not unless you_ make it a bearing. _Which I hardly see as any different to me trying to influence him.”

Steve groans into his hands, “why do you always have to make such good points?”

Peggy doesn’t say anything, but then Steve feels her hand lay itself over his. He twists their fingers together; and she lifts an eyebrow.

“If it’s by his choice then…then I can’t forbid him.” He has to decide, but hardens on one point. “But I will forbid anyone pressuring him to…I’m sticking by him. It’s a new thing we’re trying.”

She raises the eyebrow fully now, in curiosity. “You weren’t doing that before?”

“Yes and…not in the way we’re doing now. There was a smallaltercation. Thing’s got expressed.”

“Got expressed?” Peggy repeats dubiously, hearing the tone that’s come out for what it is.

“Rather loudly. And…a little violently.”

“I feel like a little is_ a lot_ in your terms, Steve.” He huffs out a smile. “Is that what this is from?” She asking suddenly, standing and reaching for his bruised jaw.

“It went…the way I expected, and the way I didn’t.”

“And he did this?” Peggy queries. Steve hums. Her face changes imperceptibly.

“What?”

“He hit you, _you_, hard enough to bruise?”

“Uh-huh.” Steve confirms with a curious frown.

“To still be bruised over twelve hours later?”

“Yes.” Steve confirms impatiently. “What about it?”

Steve looks like she thinks twice about what she’s going to say, and instead lands on. “That’s…that’s quite something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gives him another one of those looks. “Steve, you’re practically indestructible by normal standards. Your bones are denser, flesh and muscles tougher; your skin itself is more durable than any other person on earth. Aside what Red Skull's capabilities are - we think,” she amends, “your rate of regeneration is six times faster than the average human man or woman. You survived what equated to a two tons of concrete landing your back, for gods sake. The fact that Bucky was able to leave a mark is…”

“Not what’s important.” Bucky himself is what’s important, not how good a fighter is he, or how well he can cap someone when he wants to. _God._ He rubs his face with his hands, slumping down in the seat by the corner of the table, stretching out his sore leg without thinking. “It was such a mess, Peggy.”

She slowly returns to her seat as his right hand crests his eyes and cheekbone, then takes his hand with her other, so she has one clasped in two. Her eyes linger on the bruise, then force themselves away. “Would you like to tell me what’s going on?”

“I started a fight I shouldn’t have.”

“Okay…” His gal prompts, and Steve continues unthinkably.

“I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea. I actually,” he laughs, half-broken. “I knew it was a bad one. I knew he wouldn’t react well - but I just didn’t care. I didn’t care Peggy,” he looks up at her, pain reflecting attempted understanding. “I didn’t care that I knew I was going to upset him. Because what I wanted was more important - what kind of friend does that?”

“The kind of friend whose trying to broach a subject _noone_ knows how to broach.” She says calmly. “This is uncharted territory for a lot of people. That’s why…that’s why there’s professionals for this kind of thing.”

“He won’t go near a doctor." Steve says immediately. "Head doctor or no. He won’t, and clearly;” he gestures to his face, “he's in a position to fight me on it if he gets threatened. He knows I'll hold back because I don't want to hurt him, is the thing. He went at me hard - he tried to _run _first, Peggy. He’s operating on instinct, not sense. I think he has been for a while. I triggered the worst of it on purpose. _God._”

He says it this time, blasphemy or not.

“God can’t change the past, and neither can you.” Peggy replies, “so focus on the present. It’s done - is he talking to you at all right now?”

“Yeah. A little - afterwards.”

“There. Then everything's not so terrible." She consoles, squeezing. "You get very pitiful when he doesn’t laugh at your jokes, and it’s not a look I like on you.” It’s a fair attempt to lighten the room. Like before Steve can’t laugh because none of this is funny.

“He’s still angry. The super-dupper jeepers level angry. He's barely letting me touch him.”

“That’ll fade.” Peggy assures. “What did he say to upset you like this?”

“He, he told me everything and nothing. Not about what happened - he can’t broach that. But about how he’s feeling. How I’mhow I was making him feel worse. It wasn’t good. Still isn’t…He’s...he’s struggling, Peg. And it’s my fault.”

“It most certainly is not.” Comes the abrupt answer.

He looks at her. “Peggy”

“You made a point of telling me you don’t like me lying to you.” She cuts him off, “so I’m not going to lie to you and tell you something is your fault when there is no such shred of a thing.”

“I’ve been pushing him andit’s not even that. There’s”

“Did you start this war, Steve?” Peggy asks frankly, her very expression telling him there is no way in hell she is going to let him wallow in this. “No. You didn’t. Did you give that prick, Zola, his directives? Are you in league with Herr Schmidt? No, no and no. So drop that right now.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?”

He sighs, glancing sideways at the table. Peggy wordlessly slides the pack of cigarettes to him, picking one out for herself and letting Steve take the moment of lighting the both of them to stall. “I was never meant to be here, Peggy, you know that.” He’s careful with his choice of words. “If not for the serum I’d still be in that apartment working to make rent. You know I tried to enlist four times. You know I was rejected four times.”

“And accepted on your fifth.” Peggy reminds him.

“Because I got lucky.” He says flatly, “Erksine just happened to be walking by while I was having a stupid argument because I was jealous they wouldn’t let me in on my pal’s last night in the city. On his last night home. I decided throwing another shot at it was more important than seeing him off properly.” He shakes his head, now able to look at it with a clearer mind_. Had that hurt Bucky, when he did that? Or did he just not mind like he used to not mind a lot of what Steve did? He never minded when Steve waved off dancing before, but that night was different…_

“You weren’t just…lucky Steve. You might have been in the right place at the right time, but Abraham chose you because you’re special. He chose you twice. Because you’re the one he wanted - luck has nothing to do with it. And if you hadn’t done what you did”

“I wouldn’t be here. Exactly the point I’m making.”

Peggy takes a puff on her cigarette, blowing out smoke sideways as Steve takes an inhale. “I still don’t see it.”

“I never told him. He shipped out before I could; I never wrote him about it.”

“Even if you had it wouldn’t have made it to him, Steve. Your mail was being watched.”

He gives her a flat look. “Thank you,” he adds helpfully light, “for the new knowledge of that invasion of my privacy.”

She shrugs, “I wasn’t the one looking at it.”

He looks away, a huffed bark of laughter; as genuine as her tone. “That’s very helpful.” He recites, not quite all the way there to teasing. “My point is as far as he was concerned I was safely away from this war. He counted on that to get through it.”

“He told you this?”

“More or less.”

“And?”

“What do you mean - _and?_” Steve demands with incredulous shock.

“And,” Peggy expresses, newly lit cigarette forgotten in her fingers. “many men out here count on their brothers and sisters staying in school and going the right path while they’re away to get them through it. And most of the time the boys are conscripted into mine work anyway, and the girls are being far less-than-innocent while they’re away. The world doesn’t always work the way we count on it doing….I don’t say this to diminish whatever Barnes is going through, but none of what you’ve just told me, _despite your best efforts,_ makes you responsible for his suffering. The war may have been the start of his troubles - it may have been started by Zola - or just made worse by him. The mind is a complicated thing. But the situation is not so complicated that it grants you the ability to turn it around and blame yourself. It’s not your fault, Steve. Were it not for you and for your timely arrival at Azzano he would, in all likelihood, have died. So there’s that to think about.”

Steve puts out his barely begun cigarette in the ash tray on his far right, sighing. Bucky might have said he regrets what he tried and wouldn't do it again, but it doesn't exclusively mean he cares about living. “Sometimes I wonder is he would have preferred that.”

“I don’t think he does.” Peggy replies gently. “He tries too hard to please you for that to be true.”

“To…to please me?” Steve queries. _Do you think?_

“Steve Rodgers,” Peggy declares, rolling her eyes. “You are genius on a good day, but you are also as dumb as a post. Why do you think he’s been going to church every week with you?”

“For sermon.” Steve replies, and the second he says it he knows how bloody ridiculous it is. Very rarely has there been a time in the last five years that Bucky hasn’t taken an opportunity to skip Sunday Mass.

“I have seen many expressions on that man’s face,” she says, “and never have I seen him look so_ damn bored _than he does sat on that pew. Until _you_ look at him, and then he pretends to pretend to pay attention to make you feel better. You understand that I’m going with you for you, yes?”

He nods. ”It’s also a excuse to get good food after.”

“It is,” she agrees, “but mostly I go to learn because it’s important to you. I go to support you while you’re…figuring some things out. Yes, I’ve noticed.” She switches rapidly to when he opens his mouth. “So has Bucky. Why is it so difficult to see that he’s doing the same thing? Maybe there’s the occasional show of interest, but mostly he’s going for you. I suppose the tradition also allows for a break away from this bunker,” she eyes the ceiling distastefully, “which does grate. It definitely grates.”

“You only came back yesterday.” Steve notes.

“And I wish I was already gone. Look,” Peggy says, rubbing her face with one hand. She has bruises on her forearm, near her elbow. It looks like someone tried to grab her, and the knuckles on her right hand are likewise tinged brown from where she likely punched that someone in the throat to get them to drop it. God, he loves this woman. He’d suggest letting him try kiss away the bruises later, knows she’d only laugh; and then let him. As much as he wants to, he feels too swallowed in everything else to go that course right now. “He wants you to succeed Steve, in everything that you do. That’s clear. He also wants to be able to feel like he can succeed too."

“I know he does.” Steve replies quietly. “He _does_ succeed, he’s my best solider.”

_I want to be good at something useful that isn’t f’ffing murder. _

_Yes. There is that._

Peggy doesn’t say anything because Steve already knows. “He just wants to be best at something else.” He concludes. “I can’t stop him from doing it, can I?”

Peggy cants a shoulder at him, putting out her cigarette also. “I’m not an expert on your friendship.”

“You sure about that?” Steve asks in slight amusement, “you seem to be seeing a lot more than I am.”

“That’s because I’m trained to see,” she explains, “and I’ve still got distance to it right now. Don’t worry, in a lot of ways he’s as clueless as you are.” She pats his arm in consolation.

“That’s good to know.” Peggy takes his hand again after making sure no one else is in the room.

“Steve.” She grips his hand tighter to get his attention. “You can’t help your friend with his mess if you’re buried in your own - so stop blaming yourself, and don’tdon’t take anything he says to heart.”

“I promised I’d listen to him now.” Steve contradicts.

“Yes. So listen to him. Good, great.” She gestures with her shoulders, “but also remember that whatever he says to you, however he lashes out - he’s only doing it because you make him feel safe. He knows you’re not going to walk out on him - okay? He knows that, so you don’t need to be worrying about proving that to him, yes?”

He nods. “Yes. Okay, yeah. You’re right.” She smiles softly at him. He checks the doorway, then leans in and kisses her quickly in thanks.

There’s more he could say, a lot more. He still wants to talk about it; and not only with Bucky _for _Bucky. He wants to talk it out with someone else for his own peace of mind - but there’s only one person he’d feel right doing that with - and he doesn’t want to put the woman in front of him in an compromising position - so - he pushes through his own fears.

His new mission - listening, and trying to keep Bucky as upbeat as he can. Trying to keep him as present as he can in the meantime as his second.

Okay, yes. This he can do.

. . .

Steve waves the guys off with a lie about going for a walk by the river before curfew to clear their heads, (and no, they will not fetch the boys back sausages from the Butchers this side of the Thames), while Bucky stands scuffing his shoes. They don't get far - not even four streets in the sirens start going off - and Steve’s having to do a quick ring through off a pay-phone, and then they’re held up in a underground shelter with another two hundred civilians.

The roof shakes with each boom, and dust clouds sparse with every other. It makes Steve nervous, looking up at the ceiling and begging this one not to collapse on him too. He reckons he might actually feel safer out on the street instead of under it.

“Thank you.” Bucky says in the dark; sounding like it's taken a good while to get these words out. “For this morning…for…well, you know what for. I’m sorry for crying like a stupid baby.”

“Everyone’s a stupid baby at some time.” Steve replies, stretching his legs out best he can over the tiles.

He feels Bucky side-eye the edge of his forehead. “It’d be nice for you to contradict the stupid baby part.”

“No pity parties, remember?” Steve reminds.

“Right.” His friend replies, and after a moment Steve catches the edge of him suppressing a smile at his legs.

“You’ve done the same for me before.” Steve adds, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his left arm. “When I was in pain from my scoliosis. When my shitty health was too much for me to cope with. Hell… I’ve even puked on you as you held me. Tears are nothing by comparison.”

Bucky’s lips curve into a wry smile that Steve can just make out in the dark, the only real one all day. “Still… Thanks.”

"Always."

** **

. . .

Bucky doesn’t have a great night the next day. Across the room Steve hears him jerk himself awake three times; two in the same hour - and the last is very vocal.

Where the others woke only Steve, this third wakes Dernier too.

After catching his breath, gasping unevenly and rubbing at the side of his neck, he murmurs an apology in Jacques’ direction.

“Son amende, Bucky. Son amende.” He barely gets out before Bucky’s shucking his covers, and padding out the room. The triangle of light from the swung open door exposes Jacques sat up and twisted in their direction; his head turns to look at Steve’s bed before the light extinguishes. Steve rolls over and out from his own bed, seeing the expression and knowing what kind of night this is in for. He pads his way out in the dark, giving Jacques an ‘a ‘okay’ sign with his fingers. A only-just visible replacement for a reassured smile.

In his slacks and light jacket he heads for the coffee corner; as dubbed; stewing a decaf tea with a heavy dose of honey alongside a whole tray full of regular tea. He greets and grins at the night shift working away; depositing the ‘substance for a good night’s work’ on the centre table.

“This was very kind of you Captain.”

“No problem at all.” He replies, taking the decaf for himself. He wanders a few corridors down until he’s at their underground armoury - purposefully on the other side of the compound to Stark’s lab. That way they’ll be safe if Howard accidentally blows something the hell up by accident.

_“One fire!” Howard claimed only last week. “We’ve had one fire; yet you tossers act like I’m running a main on a gas line!"_

He finds Bucky in one of the side rooms, sequestered under the swinging bulb cross-legged on the floor in his pyjamas. The dust cover of a modified AK-47 clicks as Bucky slides it off the carrier spring, pulling it apart. He has his oil and rag on the side waiting. Steve places the mug by his knee.

“You want company?”

Bucky shakes his head.

Steve forces himself to give Bucky a brief pat on the shoulder. He goes back to bed.

He wakes from sleep at four-nineteen according to the radium in his watch to the sound of the door closing near silently on it’s hinges and the rustle as Bucky pulls back his cot sheets.

Okay. Good.

He sleeps through the rest of the night. Steve hears him whispering ‘I will know I’m dreaming, I will know I’m dreaming’ before he drops off.

“I think we should let him sleep a little longer, yes?” Jacques says in the morning.

“Grand idea that is.” Steve replies with good cheer, swinging an arm over Jacques shoulders as they head to the showers. “I saw you got another letter yesterday. Have you had any luck with Juliet and Amelie?”

A few hours later Steve knocks a couple of times, then enters after half a moment. He’s inexplicably pleased to see there is no concealed lump still in the bed - instead it’s flat and perfectly neat; and Bucky is finishing tucking in the corners to army straightness. He looks miserable - but fresher at least; showered and trying to be ready for the day. He certainly looks more put together that he did yesterday.

He glances briefly at Steve, swallows thickly, then looks away.

“Dugan is being infuriating.” Steve opens with, leaning his hip into the door frame. “I need you to come save me.”

Bucky clears his throat, his back straightens in relief, and he lets out a easy breath. “Well that’s not new.” He returns. “Remind me why would I put myself through that?”

“Because you love me and want to give me peace of mind?” Steve suggests.

“Suppose that’s first parts true.”

“And the second?”

“Depends on the day. Sack him on someone else. Don’t you think I’ve been tortured enough?”

Steve snorts in shock into his cup of coffee.

“Because I think I have.” Bucky tacks on very casually, glancing at him sideways with a look on his face that says he knows exactly how bad humoured that was.

Steve shakes his head in disbelief, half a chortled smile. “How was your tea?”

“Terrible. Not surprising ‘cause you made it.”

“Good.” Steve retorts, tossing an apple at the end of Bucky’s bed.

As quick as a flash Bucky has turned and caught it, despite Steve throwing it nowhere near him, and while his back was turned at that. “You know,” he comments just like Bucky did at fifteen, pointing with his cup,_ “that_ is why you made the baseball team and I never did.”

“Sure.”

“Sure.” Steve repeats more confidently.

. . .

Bucky makes Steve a equally terrible cup of tea without asking a couple of hours later, like code for _you done good._

_. . ._

_ Home Sweet Home Hour _ ,  Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft(RRG), German State Radio , MAY 31ST

_“This is Berlin calling, and I’d just like to say to our troops that when Berlin calls it pays to listen. Because there’s an American girl sitting at the _ _microphone_ _ every Tuesday evening at the same time, with a few words of truths._

“There’s our lovely Axis Sally again, Jesus Christ.” Dugan rolls his eyes, as the frequency tunes in clearer.

_This is the truth. _ _Damn Roosevelt! Damn Churchill. Damn all Jews who made this war possible. I love America, but I do not love Roosevelt and all his kike boyfriends_<strike> </strike> _”_

“Turn that off.” Steve orders, now fed up with Axis Sally and all her like.

. . .

In the interim in London it’s medallion season it seems. As the squad update their qualifications and exchange their pins for higher classifications - Dugan is very impressed by his own higher scores, boy let Steve tell you - the offer of a number of Army decorations arrives. It’s likely come now as positive press before the invasion; and he’s very aware of the privilege they have to have been one of the squads offered this before the rest of the men on the front; but Steve’s men also deserve it; so it’s an easy hoop to jump.

Steve, already a recipient of a Medal of Honour, is given leeway to decide if his squad are qualified and deserving of an award.

_Of course_, he says.

In fact he proposes the newly commissioned Bronze Star for several of them; awarded for either heroic achievement, heroic service, and meritorious achievement or service in a combat zone. It’s the perfect choice since foreign soldiers who have served with or alongside a service branch of the States Armed forces, and civilians serving with the U.S military, are also eligible - so it covers all the facets of the men in his team. He writes long glowing reports, citing achievements and actions deserving - and if failing further evaluation - recommends the American Campaign medal, or official commendations at the very least.

Command says_ ‘Thank you for your reports, Captain. We’ll take them into consideration.’ _This was a month and a half ago; and a month later comes one or two stamps of approval on Steve recommends, and where there is the stamp of unqualified; there is the next step down in decoration.

Commendations for all but one.

_Thank you for your reports, Captain Rodgers_, Command reports,_ we are pleased to inform you of the success of your unit’s decorations. There will be an awards ceremony on_

“Steve.” Peggy says, and he stops reading with a growing grin on his face to look at her. She looks rather serious, and when she see’s his frown she points to lower on the page. He follows her finger - there is unqualified stamped on all seven decorations; and then all commendations offered. Jones has been awarded nothing; and Jones was one of the ones Steve recommended the highest.

He slams the paper down. “That’s ridiculous! He broke the line and rescued four children and two civilians from a apartment block when it went up in flames. Under fire. He went out his way to break through a Hydra barricade nearly on his own, and kept them down. He…he taken some of the darker stuff we’ve had tothis is ridiculous.”

“It is.” Peggy agrees. “You know why.”

“It’s not good enough.” Steve decides, and marches his way to Colonel Philips office. The Colonel follows his finger as Steve did Peggy’s and sighs, taking off his reading glasses to clean them. He sounds resigned.

“I’d wondered if that might happen.” He holds up a hand before Steve can speak, “which is why I sent in my own reports for your squad. Believe me, they were glowing. If they’ve ignored mine on top of yours - then it’s come from the top.”

“So how do we override it?” Steve says, and they find ten minutes to sit down and brainstorm. They realize there is no way to override it and get Gabe the medal he deserves; and so Philips off his own back submits personal commendations through a route that means no matter what happens; those commendations are on Gabe’s record and will stay on Gabe’s record.

Steve hands back his Legion Medal.

“Don’t know if that one’s going to fly.” Philips warns. “They’re only going to believe you’re humble so many times, Rodgers.”

“I don’t want them to think I’m humble. I want them to _know _I’m furious. This is a protest.”

“You’re not on a New York street corner now, Rodgers.” Howard tacks on, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed; having decided to throw himself on Gabe’s side of the debate too. “There’s protocols, glad rags and resources you’ve gotta' fight for<strike> "</strike> He holds up his hands as Steve looks at him. “Alright then. You really going to just refuse it, huh? It’s a big honour.”

“I don’t care for honours. I care for what’s right. It’s a matter of justice.”

“It might bite you in the ass.” Howard warns. “That kind of insult doesn’t just lay flat when you go against them. _Trust me_.”

Steve frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Just trust me, man.”

Steve watches him a moment, and can clearly see whatever the hell Howard is trying to warn him about has led to damage in some for him; _maybe for __business__?_ “I’ve already skipped out on one medal ceremony; and that one was bigger. They haven’t demoted me for it yet.” He stands, “as far as I’m concerned I’m doing them a favour of shutting it down before they ceremonize it and I embarrass them again.”

Philips snorts. “I’d almost like to see the look on their faces when you throw it at them and it sticks.”

“You have more access than me, sir,” Steve comments, “so you’ll have to let me know how satisfying it is.”

. . .

“Hey Cap.” Dugan notes; carrying an updated notice from his cubby hole. “Got a question for ya.”

“Hit me with me it.” Steve replies, taking three quick sharp steps back and throwing his shield in a blur again. It disappears with the sudden speed, then it hits the target, and the next; springing back. He barely catches it before it’s off on it’s next target spin again.

“This came through this morning - I thought it was a copy, but it’s a new edition.” Catch. Another time,_ whizz, bang, _somersault; ready in position for catch...

“Edition of what?” He queries, notes: “incoming.”

Dugan’s already ducking, barely breaking his pace. The shield verves over his head; and Steve catches it behind his back. The ease and instant reaction he moves with makes Steve realize how accustomed the boys are to his fighting skills - they work near flawlessly now. It makes Steve feel like a good leader.

“Now you’re just showing off.” Dugan accuses.

“Peggy’s at the firing range down the way,” Steve says, “of course I’m showing off.”

Dugan laughs heartily. Steve lowers the shield, digging the edge into the dirt as he leans into it just in front of his feet. “You we’re saying?”

“Awards list. The one we got last week - there’s a new edition; and…not sure if you know this or not; but your Legion’s gone. So my question is; is there some sorta’ dark nefarious abouts going on, or, what the hell did you do to piss them off to revoke it?”

Steve huffs a laugh. “They didn’t revoke it,” he explains, “I did.”

“Wait...what? The fuck, Cap? You deserve it! I don’t care if you don’t care for the ceremonies and the pomp, you should still receive it. I nearly blew my cap when I heard what I was getting I was so chuffed.”

“Not at the expense of what my own men deserve.”

“What are you on about?”

“Look down the list.” Dugan does. He motions with one hand a_ ‘what?’ _when he can’t find what he’s looking for. “Who’s missing?” Steve prompts so he thinks differently. “Whose not listed on the ceremony schedule?”

Dugan spends another minute scanning the list, as it’s a rather long one, consisting of many more than just their squad. There’s a good dozen squads and multiple men in the infantry; alongside the Airforce, and the officers up top like Steve himself. He see’s the moment it registers, and a affronted frown forms on Dugan’s face, and then he clearly reads it all at a forcefully quick pace another time to confirm.

“You motherfuckers.” He snaps at the countryside and at the paper.

“_Yep_.” Steve pops, “we tried to sneak one through when it came back rejected, Philips and I, but couldn’t find a work around. It shouldn’t _have to be _a sneak around in the first place, but there you go. This was one way I could make my displeasure for it known.”

“Right.” Dugan announces. “Squad meeting. Now.”

. . .

“The issue on the table.” Dugan starts

“What is this, a courtroom?” Morita snorts.

“Shut up.” Dugan retorts just as quick. “This is a squad meeting. I’m chairing it.”

“If it’s a squad meeting then we need all the squad,” Bucky notes, “Jones isn’t here. Want me to go get em?”

“No. No!” Dugan says quickly. “This is about him. And we don’t know if he, like, knows about it or”

“I guarantee you he’s probably noticed.” Steve adds, in a similar position to how he was in the training field, leaning on the shield, just sat down on one of the workroom tables. They’ve commandeered a quiet corner of one of the engineering labs at the training base. Steve brought his shield under the pretence of a pretend experiment with it to scare enough of the technicians to scatter and get the hell out of dodge for ricochets. Everyone is now clustered in the two other rooms, so it’s worked.

“but depending on how this conversation goes, I don’t want to get him upset over any opinions.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s tis ‘e er about? What, er, what upset?”

“Denying him the awards and commendations?” That suggestion is from Bucky, also sat on the workroom table, but at the back of the group. He looks at Dugan. “That’s what this is about right?”

“_Excuse me_?” Falsworth responds.

“What? _Are-you-serious_?” Morita’s turn. “Are you actually serious?”

“His name’s not on the ceremony list we all got.” Bucky states, glancing at all of them.

“You noticed?” Steve mentions.

“Yeah. I noticed.” He shrugs. “He didn’t say anything, but he seemed kinda’ put out about it, I won’t lie. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

“Well maybe you should have done.” Dugan says.

“Whoa!” Bucky retorts, leaning back. “Don’t be getting on at me. I didn’t wanna’ make it worse, same as you.”

Dugan holds up a hand, a clear apology. “Right, sorry Buckaroo. Butfair question, has anyone talked to him about it?”

He looks at the group, and Morita gestures to most of them, “well we didn’t even notice, so that would be a no.” He looks at Steve, who also shakes his head. Bucky says, “I’ve already told you I haven’t.”

“Someone should probably do that.” Falsworth says, clear and quiet.

“Monty’s right.” Steve agrees, annoyed at himself for not making the point of it already. “I’ll talk to him. He’s probably only going to want to talk about it once.”

“Yeah, good point.” Dugan says, “but I got another idea.” Several of them raise their eyebrows. “Cap here - he’s refused his Legion Medal in protest.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me.” Bucky mutters at the back. Steve throws a loose gear at his chest.

“No shit, Cap. You did? When?”

“Last week. When I found out.”

“Did they say anything?” Falsworth asks curiously.

Steve shrugs, “No back and forth. I was just taken of the list - so I think they heard my point pretty damn clear. Philips backed me; since he figured he’d already backed me once in getting him off the segregated unit; what was the harm?”

“Aside from career damage you mean.”

“You think _Philips, of all people,_ cares about career damage?” Dugan cuts in, "use your brain, man."

Steve points in agreement, humming as he chews on an energy bar. His energy was dropping after his workout.

“I say we all do it.” Dugan now declares. “We all refuse them; moral support. That’ll sure as shit double down on Steve’s statement.”

“Whoa hang on -” Steve quickly buts in, “you didn’t tell me that was your idea.”

“It was your idea first, man.”

“Yes, but me doing it is different toa medal’s not going to make a difference for me with my rank, but for troops like you guys - it will. You might wanna think about”

“I’m game.” Morita declares instantly.

“I concur.” Falsworth says.

Steve stops talking, and the gaze ends up on Dernier. He leans back on his seat, “Je préférerais de loin avoir une médaille de mon propre pays, merci beaucoup.” (“****I would much rather have an medal from my own country, thank you very much.**** “)

“Bucky?” Dugan asks. “You bothered?”

His friend glances up, coming awake from a train of thought. He shrugs, clearly a no. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Guys, hang on. You need to think about this.” Steve shoves himself off the table, catching the shield before it clatters on the floor. He lays it on a workstation. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want. I don’t want any pressure. There’s no good or bad feelings either way for this.”

“What Cap said.” Dum Dum cuts in quickly, perhaps realizing that maybe he might have been a bit forcefully premature. “I probably shoulda’ said. If you want the medal; each to their own decision; no pressure. I get how big it is to have them. It was just a idea.”

He stops to look around the room at all the faces.

Jim, leaning back on his chair and putting his feet up, says: “I’m sure as shit not having you showing me up if you’re doing it - so I’m still in.” He crosses his arms behind his head. Dernier nods. Falsworth nods. Bucky shrugs and nods again. Dugan looks at Steve.

“Okay, then.” Steve declares, “it looks as though we’ve got a revolution on our hands. Squad on three?”

“You cheesy tosser,” Falsworth laughs, but none the less puts his hand into the centre to join Steve’s. Bucky hops off the worktop to reach the growing pile of hands as they slowly but surely apparently turn into cheerleaders.

“To the best guys who deserve every last one of the awards they were granted, and the ones I originally submitted you for.” Steve dedicates. “Screw segregation.”

“Screw segregation!” They cheer.

“Mixed squads are ‘he best squads.” Jacques declares at last, making them all laugh.

“Whatever nefarious things you’re doing in that corner,” Comes a shout from around a wall. _Howard. _“I request safe passage.”

“All safe, magic man.” Morita replies, then pretends to aim a punch at him as he appears.

“The staff are scared of you. What were you doing back her…”

Seeing them all talking Steve takes Dugan’s upper arm. “You said you were chuffed, Dum Dum. When you found out.” He observes privately.

“Yeah, I know.” The man allows, with a quick smile, “and I’ve had the feeling now; so fucking swell, but some things are more important.” He slaps Steve on the arm. “Thanks for paving the way Cap.”

“Thank you for carrying on the road.” He gives right back.

Dugan gives him another one of his stupid moustached grins, and looks over Steve’s shoulder. “Speaking of,” he cants his head at Steve to follow. “Hey,” he calls, “scoundrel of the highest order.” Bucky turns. “Yeah, you.”

“What?”

He pulls Bucky aside. “You feeling good today?”

Steve groans inside, _oh no._ “Du--”

“Yes.” Bucky replies pointedly, “I’m fine.”

“Fine or good?”

“Jesus, _good._ What? What are you on my ass for now?”

“Nothing man, nothin’” Dugan assures easily, “Just getting the vibes from your vibes.”

“My vibes are vibing. Are we done?”

“Yeah, just - hang on a sec. I just wanna check without the rest listening in; are you actually bothered?”

“About what?”

“About the medal, man.” He glances behind him at Steve, “I mighta’ not have actually come out with it in the best way with the whole no pressure thing.” He allows.

“I said I wasn’t.” Bucky replies.

“Yeah, I know you said that. But did you mean it? That shrug didn’t seem so sure.” There. Steve had thought so too. “I get I kinda’ put you on the spot with everyone. There’s nothing wrong if you are bothered man, you get that, yeah? It’s a big deal a medal like that.”

Bucky glances at Steve.

“What he said.” He replies, pointing his thumb at Dugan. “You can be bothered. You can want it. That’s more than fine.”

“I don’t care about the medal, Steve.”

“You hesitated though.” Dugan accuses.

“I didn’t hesitate.” He switches to the other Sergeant. “I was just thinking. I don’t care about the medal; you ever see me wearing anything but my patch and sharp-shooter pin on my jacket?”

“Very rarely do I see you actually in your jacket.”

Bucky scoffs with levity, “Says you!”

“Yeah alright, he’s got me there.” Dugan admits, mainly at Steve._ He does have you there_, Steve nearly agrees. “Least I button up properly.”

“I Don’t. Care. About the medal.” Bucky repeats, spacing it out. “I was just thinking that ma might care. Might be good news for her to hear it - or have it. That’s all.”

That’s a thought Steve hadn’t considered.

“Ah shit. Right, okay.” Dugan says quietly, “that’s fair. You keep it then man, between us three if you want”

“No, no,” Bucky interrupts, shaking his head. “Stick with the plan. That’s way moreI feel kinda’ bad for not thinking of doing it too. I saw his face when he realized - he was stung. I could tell…and, I didn’t consider…”

“Don’t, man.” Dugan says, “’ts not for you to feel bad about. They’re the ones with the problem. Are you sure, seriously? If you want your mother to have" 

“Just the word of it would work.” Bucky replies. “I’ll tell her. She’ll be proud.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. All good.”

. . .

He does another interview, and his illustrated “Letter to the Troops” is published in _Stars and Stripes_. It’s to be wildly circulated in the coming days before D-Day.

“Really are a symbol to the nation now, huh?” Bucky says quietly when he hears, on their walk back from Church.

“Apparently.” Steve replies. “I kept getting told off for being too informal - I may have thrown a few too many damns and bullshits in there. They were quickly crossed out by the editor.”

Bucky snorts, “Who even_ are _you anymore?”

“Someone stuck under your lot’s bad influence.” Steve says, shouldering him. “I repented the blasphemes - so there’s that.”

“Ah, so not as hard-core as you like to pretend you are.”

Steve snuffles, grinning. “Guess not.” After a moment, he tacks on, “Every symbol needs a second in command, though; even if they haven’t got the…fame,” he decides on uncomfortably, “and there’s still only one person I’d trust to be just that.”

“I know what you’re doing.” Bucky says mildly. “Buttering me up.”

Bucky decided touch was allowed back on the table yesterday, so Peggy was right, it did fade. Steve slings an arm over his shoulders as they walk past Piccadilly station, and squeezes him in closer. If they weren’t in public; if he didn’t think Bucky might react badly, he might even throw a smushed kiss into the side of his head; but he knows there’s only so much physicality in their affection that Bucky will take right now. And he trying to get his dues in. “Does it make you feel better?”

Bucky shrugs into his armpit, and they keep walking.

Bucky then says, “Yeah. A little.”

Steve smiles closed mouthed at a lady, though the smile; while directed at her, is not meant for her. “Good.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Bucky adds after a moment, and then his arm returns the contact Steve’s initiated two streets down; hand hovering over Steve’s back and ribs. “Captain-oh-my-Captain.”

. . .

BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, JUNE 1ST, 1944

_Good Evening. This is London calling with the news. John Sagnoe speaking. London is calling with the Frenchmen speaking to their countrymen. John aime Marie (John Loves Marie). Molasses tomorrow will bring forth cognac. The Trojan War will not be held._

“John loves Marie,” Gabe translates, who has been privy to more resistance codes than the rest of them since Steve’s delegated, “destroy communication networks.”

_Les sanglots longs des violens de l’authomne. The long sobs of the violins of Autumn._

They wait - and then the news begins.

“Only one time.” Steve notes, doing press-ups on the floor. Bucky and Falsworth are trying to match him at pace. They are failing, or Falsworth is; Bucky’s doing pretty damn well at keeping the number without tiring too much. He’s gotten so much of his strength and weight back over these months now Steve’s been helping him with the food, despite the drop Russia resulted in. His boxing body is coming back; while Falsworth’s posture, even in press-up form, is woefully aristocratic. Monty is also, unsurprisingly, frustrated at the growing number of difference to the point he’s trying to get one of the guys to sit on Steve’s back to even it out.

“That’s not gonna’ even it out, man.” Morita says, “you can’t even - _that _\- out.”

“_That_, is a person.” Steve stresses, “A person that is right here.”

“And _that ass_ is better in person than it is on a two page spread.” Morita returns. Bucky snorts so hard he looses his balances and falls onto his elbows.

“That means you’re out!” Falsworth snaps under his arm. “Rules are rules.”

Steve groans and withers a look at Jim, whose sat cooling off from his own workout. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

Jim and Dugan wear matching waggling eyebrows, smirking at him as he keeps pumping.

“Please please never let him live it down.” Bucky interjects. Steve shoves him over with one hand mid-press up.

“Right, _that is not fair_.”

“You challenged me, Monty. It’s not my fault you’re paying the price now.” Steve returns, but allows himself to stop. Falsworth decides to keep going until he has done the same amount. Steve tells him the number - he looks incredibly distraught.

“Now don’t cry, Major Ritzy.” Steve adds. He sits back on his haunches, and Dugan chucks a towel at him so he can wipe what little sweat he has on the back of his neck off. He listens to the radio, but the coded part of the broadcast is over - they’ve moved onto the invasion above Rome and detailing the results of another successful air raid over Germany. They’ve racked up heavy casualties on both sides; loosing planes just as they loosed bombs down on the below.

“One verse does mean something though, doesn’t it?” Someone asks.

“The day is imminent.” Gabe says, then tacks on: “But not yet.” Steve nods, thankful.

Dugan sighs into his hand, twiddling his moustache. “The Day has been ‘imminent for near a month for what we’ve been told. I don’t know how much longer I can take of this twiddling our thumbs, waiting - are they seriously not even gonna tell us the day until the rest find out. Not even you?” He looks at Steve.

Steve shrugs at him. “It’s top secret. The SOE agents aren’t even telling the Resistance the big code until after it’s been broadcast. Only the top officers know the details - at least we know what beach we’re taking.”

“Just not when.”

“We know the code.” Steve says, “that’s likely all we’re gonna get. SSR’s different to the Army - we’re a small cog in a big machine in this field.”

“Yeah I know,” Dugan grumbles, “I just want some action. I don’t want to get rusty.”

“I highly doubt you, ‘hell, I’ll always fight’ man of the hour will get rusty.” Gabe huffs with a smile. “You’re just bored.”

. . .

* * *

**ALLIED MILITARY MEMORANDUM**

War Press Department, Pinewood Studios, Slough, West London.

* * *

**CENSOR CLEAR COURIER **

_Recorded Next Day - Personal, Pinewood_

* * *

**MEMORANDUM for Commander, Company F 76th Commando Grade - CAPTAIN STEVEN GRANT RODGERS.**

**SUBJECT: FOR YOUR RECORDS.**

I, Arnold Fletcher, War Photographer ID:3467892 for the Allied Cause; gift to Captain Steven Rodgers the following.

*A hello.

*Something to make him smile. An outtake - and the only time in three weeks I managed to get her on camera.

**AMENDMENT** \- Don't try and squash this one into your compass. You're welcome. Also, she is a spy and so definitely don't loose this. I will get in trouble. Thank you and goodnight.

PLEASE SEE ATTACHED HARD COPY:

. . .

“Geez, again?” Gabe says from across the room. Steve glances up from his work desk to see he’s next to their squads P/O cubby hole.

“What is it?” Falsworth asks.

“Why do they keep sending copies of this, this is like the third one.” He flips the notice round, shaking his head and clearly aggravated. Steve can see across the room it’s the updated ceremonial schedule. The others glance up, realize this as well, and glance down.

“Ah.” Falsworth sounds.

“Maybe there’s a change or something?” Dugan suggests.

“A change? Whoever they’re adding they’re cutting it little close to the”

Steve watches as Gabe stops mid-sentence, nearly freezing with his eyes on the paper. They rove over it just as Dugan’s did. “Er…” It’s the only sound that comes out.

He pulls his eyes from it to look up;t he commandos are looking down or are pretending not to pay any notice. Jones’ eyes go to each of them, then back to the paper, then to another; like he’s checking them off. Steve’s the only one who catches his eye when looks at him, and Gabe keeps the contact instead of checking the schedule for his name. There’s something in his eyes that Steve can’t quite decipher.

Steve gives him a small smile, and nods across the whole room.

“I think…I think there might be a few mistakes on this, Captain.” He states, like a report.

Steve shakes his head mildly. “There isn’t.” He says, “there was only one mistake, and that was on the first one.”

Gabe keeps looking at him.

“You good Jonesy?” Dugan asks from the right, and it breaks the sudden spell as Jones jerks to look at the man. He looks at them all one by one another time.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice not thick but not flat either. “Yeah, everything’s amazing today.” He looks at Steve who winks at him. The man smiles for the first time in days. “Does anyone want coffee?”

“Oh god,” Morita groans, “it’s like you read my mind.”

“Moi, please.”

“Oh_ hell _yes.”

As Jones moves past with a collection of mugs, he claps each and every one of Steve’s troops on the shoulder. He finishes on Bucky, who claps him back. His friend follows Jones’s path over his shoulder, who has started whistling, then turns to Steve.

“You did good, Steve-o.” He says across the table.

Steve smiles back. “What did your ma say?”

“She was real happy.” Bucky answers.

“I’m glad.”

. . .

He spends a lot of time with Howard, and when he’s not covering his ass by lying about being beaten up by angered fathers; he’s quite good company. He’s rather funny, Steve has to admit, in his own pompous way.

He decides he’s about ready to fall in love with the man when he clocks his head to the side and makes Steve follow. He unveils a drawing of Steve’s not newest, but hopefully a future, edition of his motorbike.

“I could kiss you right now.” He tells him outright, and Howard grins, looking more pleased at Steve’s compliment that he did when he received _his _medal and commendation award from the Congress’ most senior men. He now has the decorated honour of an Outstanding Volunteer Service Medal.

The bike’s thick set. It has a rocket launcher, it has wire shot; it has a whole manner of things.

“But can it fly? That’s the question.” Bucky comments, sat on the work table and tossing something he probably shouldn’t be tossing up and down like a baseball. Howard hasn’t called him on it yet - but Howard also has doubtful safety standards when it comes to his lab.

“Right you!” Howard says, pointing. “You stop that right now! The _disrespect_.”

“It was an innocent question!”

“It was not an innocent question, it was a question designed to bug me. The one time you see me exhibit in person and it’s the only time I experience failure.”

“You got fired across the room at thirty miles an hour for poking the wrong thing last week,” Bucky says, “pretty sure you experienced failure there too. Dernier was there - so you had an audience.”

“I will kick you out.” Howard threatens.

“Nah, you won’t. I’m the only of us you like who actually knows what a coupling device is.”

“He’s also the only of us you can probably convince to do something dangerous for the sake of science, and science alone.” Steve cuts in; absorbed in the plans.

“Hm. Now that’s a point. Barnes, will you be my experiment?”

Steve's head is up instantly. There’s a very strong flash across Bucky’s face, enough that Howard see’s it and steps back. Steve watches his posture warily. Steve then watches him recover on his own. He manages to force out, tone light: “Not if you use that word I won’t.”

“How about guinea pig?”

“Maybe.” He agrees.

“Great!” Howard chirps, outraged mood dispersed with a one-liner, holding his hands out for Bucky to toss the thingyep no, the thing he definitely shouldn’t be throwing around like a baseball; that is_ a grenade_,_ Good Lord_into his hands. “Let’s start with”

“Ugh.” Bucky interrupts, “not today, thanks. Maybe anotI’m gonna go.” He’s already gone from the door by the time Howard has caught the grenade. He looks from the door to Steve and back again.

“He okay?”

“Yeah. He'she’s okay. Just taking some space.”

“Right.”

“Maybe don’t call him an experiment again.” Steve advises tactfully after a moment.

“Yeah that kinda’ struck me as a terrible move the second he flinched.” Howard responds, making a face. “_Yikes_.”

Steve watches him bounce the object back and forth his hands; and looks around at the mess strewn across the table. “Howard?” Steve asks, “is there any such thing as safety standards in any of your labs?”

Howard starts spluttering, “Y-ye-yes!” He emphasizes, “I’ll have you know”

. . .

The next time Steve goes in the lab everything is suspiciously tidy.

“Je n’ai pas confiance en cela.” (“****I do’ a not trust this.****”) Dernier whispers sidelong at him.

“Jacques, tu n’as jamais été aussi sur le point.” (“****Jacques, you’ve never been more on point.****”) Steve returns, “En fait, j’ai très peur.” (“**** I’m actually quite scared****.”)

“What is, e’ happening?”

“I think he’s trying to prove he has safety standards.”

Something catches fire in the corner. Jacques points at it. “He doesn’t. In’a fact, I think it…I think it might be worse.”

One of the technician yells and sprays foam on it to put the flames out.

“I think we should just leave.” Steve suggests, backing up.

“I agree. Run. Before e’ see’s us.”

. . .

Howard’s next mission is layering up his suit with a whole manner of new weapons and hidden compartments; but Steve has to draw the line when he spots a drawing that suggests putting a grenade gum pocket near his crotch.

“Please do it.” Bucky says, who has forgiven Howard his faux pas. He laughs when he says it. Steve nearly consents; then realizes he’s not putting his dick in danger on the basis of making Bucky laugh one time.

. . .

[PHOTOGRAPH #1413, REEL 2. TAKEN BY: CPRL. ANDRE JANSSENS. DESIGNATION: WAR PHOTOGRAPHER I SSR DIVISION PRESS ID: 367843 UNSPECIFIED LOCATION: 2ND JUNE 1944.]

. . .

One day Howard’s face drops; and he leaves abruptly. Steve looks at the radio; spluttering the news, listens. He tries to follow him but Howard can be just as trickzy as Peggy sometimes; and he disappears round a corner and into the maze of rooms on the East Wing that Steve still hasn’t discovered every nook and cranny of.

He goes back to the radio. “What was that just talking about, what did I miss?”

“Usual troop reports?” Dugan answers.

“I heard the word Finlow.” Steve replies,_ that was when Howard walked out. Finlow._ “What was the report there?”

“Loss on our side. Nazi fuckers massacred a bunch of Red's troops. Two hundred dead or something; ambush gone wrong.”

“Why would he walk out for that?” Falsworth queries.

. . .

Howard’s in a foul mood for days; and when Steve asks him if he’s alright; he mirrors Bucky in how he reacts; by lashing out. He goes particularly stony faced when visiting officers from Washington arrive at their military compound in Surrey; Steve notices.

“I’d watch that one if I were you.” He warns Steve one day from behind, after he’s stepped away from the commando’s workout to be introduced.

“Sorry?”

“McGuiness. Big moustache.”

Steve frowns, “why?”

For a whole two seconds it looks like Howard’s going to answer, then something shutters off in his face. “Like I said to you in Philips office - Refusals to lay flat don’t matter - trust me on that.”

“How” And he’s gone.

“What’s his problem?” Gabe asks.

“What isn’t his problem these days?” Jim cuts in.

“I’m not sure,” Steve answers, “but there’s something going on.” He remembers that conversation with Howard on the way back from the mail-room;_ months ago._

_Let’s just say I’ve been putting my toe in on things not normally in my field, and it’s going about as well as combining Einstein’s Theory of Gravity and Quantum Mechanics._What have you been doing Howard, and what the hell have you gotten yourself wrapped up with?

“You’d think the man would be happy now that he’s a decorated member of the government.”

“I don’t think Howard’s ever had any interest in being part of the government, Tim.” Steve replies, taking a step back into their exercise line.

“That’s a point.” Bucky says from the middle of the line. “You know he refused his other one.”

“What other one?”

“His other medal.“ Bucky answers, glancing up briefly before returning to his press-up circuit. “He was down for two.”

“He washow do you know that?”

“It was on the list when we were looking up ours. An’…” he pumps his last and rolls right as Falsworth does the same and takes his spot, turning on his back for the sit-ups. “I was in the room when he got the notice. Went off on one of the phone; said he didn’t want it.”

“It was a decorated one?” Jones asks quietly, who has every right to be upset as the owner of exactly none.

Bucky hums a yes. "Nuclear something or other."

“Why wouldn’t he…?”

“Dunno. Just started muttering about vaults and if they could mine enough vibrainium to build a door. The answer was a no.”

“What about after that?” Steve asks, as he knows Bucky is very good at seeing past people’s fronts, and noticing the details.

“Dunno.” Bucky repeats, “I left after that. Didn’t involve me.”

Or he's _normally_ very good at seeing past people’s fronts and noticing the details - when he’s having a good day and acting normal._ Stop it, Steve. _He reminds himself.

. . .

BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, JUNE 4 TH , 1944. 18:30pm.

_Good Evening, this is Pierre Holmes with today’s news. But first, a message for our friends. La fia che ne passeva pas (the arrow will not get through)..._

“Destroy railway networks.” Dernier translates. Steve hums, swallowing his food.

_John loves Marie_

“Communication lines - you know this one.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve says.

_Aunt Amelia cycled in shorts, the elephant broke a defence. The long sobs of the violins of Autumn. Les sanglots longs des violens de l’authomne. Wound my heart with a monotonous languor._

Steve spits his water out. There is no salt in it. Dernier’s head has already snapped up across the table.

_Blesse mon coeur d’une langueur montone. [SWITCH]_

_There has been extensive success in…_

He doesn’t need the translation into English to understand, but the fact that it exists, confirms it. The First two lines of Paul Verlaine’s poem, Chanson d’Automne, repeated once.

What does it translate to: it translates to this: D-DAY begins in 48 hours.

The entire cafeteria stands, everyone abandons their food. Less than a minute later; Dugan is already looking for him.

“You hear it?”

“I heard it - time”

“Rodgers! Bus to Dartmouth!” Philips shouts across the hallway, “ETA four minutes. You want Colonel Peterson when you arrive. See you on the other side.”

. . .

* * *

THE STARS AND STRIPES - Daily Newspaper of the U.S Armed Forces, VOL 4

JUNE 4TH 1944

> ** **“A LETTER TO OUR TROOPS” BY Captain Steve G. Rodgers** **

> _“These are dark and desperate times. I know that some of you are afraid. It’s alright - it’s perfectly natural. Every man is scared in his first action._ _ <strike> If any man he says he’s not, he’s a goddamn liar. </strike> _ _Some men will get over their fright a minute under fire, some take an hour, and for some it takes days. But the real hero is the man who fights when he’s scared - that’s true bravery; the man who never lets his fear of death overpower his sense of duty to his country - but also to humanity._

> _But I want you to know that I am not. I am not afraid to die this day, because what we have to do here is necessary. It might seem impossible - our enemies appear to be endless…but that doesn’t matter - because there is no one else._

> _This suit and shield were created as a symbol to help make America the land it’s supposed to be…to help it realize it’s destiny. The real heroes are not storybook combat fighters. An army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps and fights as a team._ _ <strike>This talk about an individual hero - is a load of bullshit.</strike> _

> _Every single man in the army plays a vital role - The ordnance men needed to supply the guns, the shooters, the doctors and nurses waiting in the wings, the quartermaster bringing up the food and clothes for us; because where we’re going there isn’t going to be a lot to steal. Every last man in the mess hall, the one who boils the water to keep us from getting_ _ <strike> the shits</strike> _ _ ill, he’s got a job to do._
> 
> _So don’t ever let up. Don’t ever think your job is unimportant. You are ready!_

> _We’re not fighting for land, resources, religion or politics - we’re fighting for every single man, woman and child to be granted the freedom they deserve._

> _Every foot that lands on the ground; on that sand; in that water; is a foot more that our enemy has to fear. War is a bloody business; a killing business - but it must be done. So think of your wives, your children, your brothers and sisters, your mothers; your proud fathers waiting for you on the shores at home or in heaven above for their own sacrifice in the First War. Think of them as you take your first step; just as you’ll be thinking of them as you take your last. When the shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt from your face, and you realize it’s not dirt; think of them._

> _Take every step for them - because they’re who were fighting for. Watch each other’s sixes out there, fellas, and I’ll watch yours._

* * *

_. . ._

Everything, when he gets to Dartmouth, is a rush of the highest order.

Trucks are lined, hundreds upon hundreds, along both sides of the pavement under huge telephone poles, as more loaded with ammunition head from the armourer to the main port. Messengers on motorbikes _vhrum _and _whizz_ past, weaving out narrow paths over the road ahead; secure directive’s tucked in their shirts or in their file wallets. Planes rush overhead, shaking the ground as they dip low over squared fields and cobbled streets; long vacated for American troops to make it their home for the coming assault. They’ve been here since 42’.

At the port men carrying bicycles, lined one by one with brown tags tied to their uniforms, make their way onto the ships.

“Alright men, line up - bags packed, and make your way onto Roger #4; that’s our vessel. Treat her well!” He orders from the front of a company; assisting the other officers in getting their men moving and in efficient formation. The men, if not battle-bred or tested, at least are good at following orders.

He jogs back to his posting to collect

A hand yanks him through the canvas wall of a tent, and if he didn’t recognize the bruised knuckles and surprisingly strong grip he’d likely react violently with the sharp edge of his spine and nervosa.

“Peg.” He whispers in shock, hand instinctively moving to tuck her hair behind her ear. “What are youwhat are you doing here?”

“You’re not the only one shipping out today. Or flying out for that matter.” She replies with one hand on his collar from where she tugged him, unconcerned about putting a wrinkle in his uniform. Steve is unconcerned about that too now he gets the chance to look upon her one last time before his feet hit seawater and French sand. She’s in all brown; trousers, shirt and a jacket with an air-force pin. Most of her hair is pulled back and bunned, though strands of her fringe have come loose as though she’s been in a rush like the rest of them. She left the base yesterday afternoon; so perhaps Steve should have predicted the code before it came on the radio; even if she’s been as ignorant as the majority of them. She’s got a full holster on her hip, and still has the strap of a rifle dangling from her hand; having grabbed him before she swung it over her chest.

“Do you know where you’re going?” She asks, insistent. “What’s your landing site?”

“Utah.”

“Utah.” Peggy breathes, taking it in. “Boats or parachute?”

“You don’t know?” He asks in surprise. She shakes her head, so he answers: “On the first wave of barges.”

She closes her eyes, “That is exactly what I was hoping you _weren’t_ going to say.”

He understands why. The first wave of barges is the most likely to become cannon fodder. Several senators didn’t want him on the frontline at all; others wanted him with the paratroopers; while another number - the smart men as far as Steve is concerned - want him where he will be most useful. He's useful in elements outside of his body's abilities, is the thing. They’re the ones who value what Steve’s capabilities can offer to the fight, and not what the loss of him could risk. That is also the exact reason he needs to be out on the front. He hopes that with him being there with them in the eye of the storm; the troops feel more protected.

“Eleventh hour addition. We’re going to try and take Cherbourg. And…where are _you_ going now?” Steve asks, frowning; he brushes her fringe from her eyes when he sees it’s irritating her.

“Hamburg. Use the distraction and try work a hole in there when they’re not looking. We’ll see where it takes me.”

Steve nods slowly, accepting. _It’s a good plan._ “Be careful.” He makes her promise. “Please. We still got that dance planned.”

She hums, smiling. “We still need to put a date on the calendar.” She reminds, “and find a place.”

“I also need to learn how dance before that too,” Steve replies, “otherwise you’ll have no toes left.”

She smiles at him. “You’ll have to have Bucky teach you in the trenches - I won’t be able to hold off forever. I’m sure he won’t mind - could be a kind of therapy for him too.”

“I’m going to make sure he never hears those words.” Steve laughs, and she smiles back. He threads the fringe away from her eyes again; leaning in and kissing her goodbye. He wonders if all the fellas back hope felt like this; kissing their sweethearts out the train windows as the steam and engines started; going to war and possibly their deaths. He’d give anything not to have to leave her right now. Her lips are chapped, not soft, and it brings a whole other realism to the situation.

“You know, if you’re trying to hide you’re not doing a great job of it. Your shadow is so ginormous I can see it miloh.” The tent flap stops. Bucky abruptly clears his throat, averts his eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to...” He makes an awkward thumb behind him. “...I’m gonna’ go this way.”

He lets out a little laugh. “So much for privacy.”

“At least it was him and no one else.” She replies; moving one hand to wipe away the stain her fading lipstick has left behind on his skin. “Bucky.” Peggy calls quickly as a last resort, and he turns. “Look after him. Please.”

Bucky smiles briefly, one of the first this day, and shrugs his shoulders. “Always do Carter.”

Steve rolls eyes, and calls over the space. “No one needs to look after me!”

“Yes we do.” They retort as one, and Peggy tugs on his collar again. He looks into her eyes.

“Buck.” He requests. “Guard the door.”

“I do not like this posting,” he says, but does it obediently anyway, “I want that on the record. If I hear moaning you lovebirds are on your own. I hope you get court martialled.”

“I hope you get gonorrhoea again.” Steve retorts over his shoulder.

“I didn’t haveI...” Bucky splutters, “not cool, man. That is not cool.”

“Guard the door!” He and Peggy order together.

. . .

“You have lipstick all over you.” Bucky greets, nearly an hour later. _What? He tells him this _**_**now?**_**_ The little shit, how long has he been letting Steve walk around like this? He probably thought it was funny._ “I thought your sweetheart was supposed to be subtle.”

Steve slaps his hand over his lips, rubbing them harshly with his sleeve. “We were overexcited.” He excuses, “so”

“You’re making it worse.” Bucky interrupts to inform him sagely, so Steve scrubs harder. Bucky rolls his eyes. “Jesus, come here.” He licks the order of his sleeve and gestures at Steve face; kneeling on the seat. “Wet dabs, man. You wanna get rid of it, not smear your skin redder.”

“I tried, okay.” Steve excuses, tilting his head as Bucky clears his face for him.

“You succeeded it increasing the smear diameter, congratulations, but that’s about it. You have so much to learn young student.”

“Oh shut up,” Steve retorts easily. “Is it coming off?”

“Uh-huh. Going back in for another though.”

“Go for it.” Steve approves, so Bucky licks his sleeve again; focusing on the corner of Steve’s mouth now.

“You know - that’s the first time you haven’t corrected us calling her your sweetheart.” Bucky says, getting the smear of red. “Now that’s improvement. You’ve gone from the 'do you wanna' get icecream' and moved up to getting your bones jumped. Well-fucking-done.” Steve smacks him lightly on the arm, then has to grin; which gives Bucky the right angle to get the last of it off with a satisfied hum before relinquishing his hold on Steve’s mouth.

“Maybe I listened to you after all then.” Steve allows, “probably when I was sleeping; when I had no control.”

“My hypnosis skills are known to be potent.” Bucky says, settling back down on the bench as they wait for the senior officers to arrive for their last briefing on English soil. The boats hum stationery as the waves crash against the pier out the window. Steve watches the seagulls swooping.

“Are you ready for this?” He asks quietly.

Bucky swallows, then nods. “I’ve done one once already. How much worse could this one be?” Steve hums. “What about you?” His friend asks, “this is your first.”

He nods. “I’m ready.”

“Are you scared?” Bucky asks softly.

“No.” Steve answers, then follows Bucky’s gaze to see his own hand is shaking. He pulls his eyes away from it to look at his friend, sat on the bench beside him; one man among thousands that are going to storm six beaches under a hail of bullets. He takes a breath and is honest. “Yes.” He admits.

“Me too.” Bucky replies, then smiles softly. “It’s gonna’ be okay, Steve. I’ve got your back. Hopefully you only have to do this one.”

. . .

BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, JUNE 5 TH 1944, 10:00AM

_This is the morning news, The European News Service of the British Broadcasting Corporation. First a message for our friends from London._

_John is growing a very long beard this week. Napoleon’s hat is in the ring._

“Railways.” Steve translates himself now as he leaves the officer quarters and calls the attention of the entire Company he has to command, over three hundred strong. Most of his command, most all the men in the division; lack any real battle experience.

“Men, fall in!”

. . .

* * *

> ** _“Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!”_ **

> _"You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months,_
> 
> _"The eyes of the world are upon you. The hope and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world._
> 
> _"Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely._
> 
> _"But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!_
> 
> _"I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!_
> 
> _"Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking._ _”_

_ _ _ General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Headquarters; Allied Expeditionary Force, June 5_ _ th _ _, 1944_

* * *

. . .

Troops, supplies and ammunition are loaded onto the ships, and at 5pm, they leave Southern England and Wales. Allied air-crafts prepare for takeoff at 23:00 loaded with twenty three thousand, four hundred paratroopers.

The ships sets sail - to Normandy. They’re going to Normandy - Utah Beach. The German’s, thanks to a sizeable chunk of Peggy’s SOE colleagues, at 01:00 will think they’re coming to Pas de Calais instead.

. . .

BBC BROADCASTING HOUSE, RADIO LONDON, JUNE 5 TH 1944, 18:30PM

_C’est Londres ! Le Français parler à la Français. Il y a un incendie à l’agence d’assurance, la chaise est contre le mur. John a une longue moustache. Les dés sont sur le tapis. Il fait chaud à Suez. Blesse mon cœur avec une langueur monotone. _

_(This is London! The French Speaking to the French. There is a fire at the insurance agency, the chair is against the wall. John has a long moustache. The dice are on the carpet. It is hot in Suez. Wound my heart with a monotonous languor.)_

The translation to that: The day is now. H-Hour is nigh. The Allies are coming from the North-West. Move to your positions - hit all stations.

. . .

At 2am, thirteen-thousand paratroopers land behind enemy lines, in the Western point of _Ste.Mere-Eglise_ to _Carentan_, and the Eastern point of _Troarm_, _Bunes_ and _Ranville. _They accomplish many objectives, though many drown in the marshes; weighed down by heavy equipment. Chatter on the radio at the same time suggests that the Germans are rerouting supplies to Calais, the most expected invasion point. The Aerial attack begins at 03:00 with three hundred bombers against the defences of the landing sector. The navel bombardment of the beaches begins loud and incredible; the largest and most spectacular sight Steve is ever likely to see, at 05:00. It precedes the landing.

Utah and Omaha beach are first at 06:30, led by the 4th and 1st American Division; the rest launch at 07:25 under the British 50th and 3rd, and the Canadian 3rd.

Operation Overlord is a go. Operation Neptune is a launch.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST THINGS FIRST: I would like to apologize for the sizable wait - please take this over-extended chapter as donation meant for your forgiveness. I jumped ahead several chapters when I was writing as that was where my mind was at at the time; and then I got seriously stuck on the inbetween chapters when my posting schedule has caught up. Love you all!
> 
> SECOND: How about that reconciliation? Am I right or am I right? I think we should make them hug every chapter from now on.
> 
> REFERENCES:  
RADIO-LONDRES: was the channel, under the BBC, that was led by Free French natives. The German’s spent a lot of time trying to jam the frequency.  
AXIS SALLY: was the nickname of two American broadcasters employed by Nazi Germany to disseminate propaganda during World War II, particularly Mildred Gillars, a middle-aged former showgirl from Ohio, broadcasting from Berlin. Mildred Gillers had three programs dedicated to addressing the American people, her shows designed to sow seeds of doubt, fear and anti-semantic and anti-Roosevelt attitudes, mixed in with good tunes. The majority of American POV’s admitted they often listened to her in their camps, as did many on the field.  
OPERATION OVERLORD - The name of the invasion of Europe, beginning with Normandy on D-Day.


End file.
